"And whither do you travel?" he asked in turn. "Every road leads to Rome, or the devil," the duke roared sagaciously, "though three days of knight-errantry have brought nothing but petticoats. The world is overburdened with women!" Francesco nodded, although he was not sure of the fact. Enlarging on the subject, as they rode side by side, the Duke of Spoleto opined that women were capable of giving a deal of trouble. Francesco considered the suggestion with due seriousness without venturing an expression on the subject. "You come from Rome?" the duke queried at last. "The Ghibellines are in possession of the town," Francesco replied with heavy heart. The duke laughed. "The spirit of chivalry runs counter to the growlings of the fathers," he said, then paused dramatically. "Anjou's name is a great and stinking sore. The whole country holds its nose because of its stench. As for him who succeeded the Cobbler's son in the chair of St. Peter:--he has yet to learn that self-righteousness but needs the devil's kiss on the forehead." Francesco made no reply. The Duke of Spoleto struck his fist into his palm. "Meat, drink and the love of woman,--these things matter more than Heaven and Hell and the solemn ravings of an ascetic though," he added meditatively, "the holy fathers of the Church teach that woman is the seed and core of all evil. Perchance we find therein the reason of their own pitiable estate!" Francesco remained silent for a space, and the duke gave him a queer puzzled look. "Look you," he said at last, picturesquely, "you seem not like other monks, fit but to be made a mock of by sluts who are ready to laugh at an ass' hind legs. That gentry I hate,--a mad medley of the devil." The duke spat with emphasis and rubbed his palms. Francesco ventured to enlighten the lord of the forests. "Yet--may not one be as one standing on the threshold, with a light in one's hand, illumining the path of others, yet remaining himself in the gloom?" The duke shrugged. "Sophistry is the devil's pastime," he said dubiously. "Many an old-established ghost there is, who has never seen such a thing as an honest monk. And there is nothing that ghosts love as they do novelties!" Francesco pondered over the wisdom of his companion, but did not feel called upon to enlarge upon it. He was even now far from convinced of his own sincerity and steadfastness of purpose. He was as a man shipwrecked on a stormy sea, ever rocking with the waves, with no beacon-light beckoning him to shore. "You have seen Conradino?" the duke said after a pause. It might have been a statement, it might have been a question. Francesco nodded. "Rome is as Ghibelline at this hour as if the Pope had lived forever at Viterbo!" The Duke of Spoleto shrugged. "A passing fever! Many a one's soul is in sympathy with one's snout!"