And now Cesare’s eye, travelling round, alighted on Madonna Paola, standing back in the shadows to which she had instinctively withdrawn at his coming. At sight of her he recoiled a pace, deeming, no doubt, that it was an apparition stood before him. Then he looked again, and being a man whose mind was above puerile superstitions, he assured himself that by what miracle the thing was wrought, the figure before him was the living body of Madonna Paola Sforza di Santafior. He swept the velvet cap with its jewelled plume from off his auburn locks, and bowed low before her. “In God’s name, Madonna, how are you come to life again, and how do I find you here of all places?” She made no ado about enlightening him. “That villain,” said she, and her finger pointed straight and firmly at Ramiro, “put a sleeping-potion in my wine on the last night he dined with us at Pesaro, and when all thought me dead he came to the Church of San Domenico with his men to carry off my sleeping body. He would have succeeded in his fell design but that Lazzaro Biancomonte there, whom you have stayed him in the act of torturing to death, was beforehand and saved me from his clutches for a time. This morning at Cattolica his searching sbirri discovered me and brought me hither, where I have been for the past three hours, and where, but for your Excellency’s timely arrival, I shudder to think of the indignities I might have suffered.” “I thank you, Madonna, for this clear succinctness,” answered Cesare coldly, as was his habit. They say he was a passionate man, and such indeed I do believe him to have been; but even in the hottest frenzy of rage, outwardly he was ever the same—icily cold and tranquil. And this, no doubt, was the thing that made him terrible. “Presently, Madonna,” he pursued, “I shall ask you to tell me how it chanced that, having saved you, Messer Biancomonte did not bear you to your brother’s house. But first I have business with my Governor of Cesena—a score which is rendered, if possible, heavier than it already stood by this thing that you have told me.” “My lord,” cried out Ramiro, finding his tongue at last, “Madonna has misinformed you. I know nothing of who administered the sleeping-potion. Certainly it was not I. I heard a rumour that her body had been stolen, and—” “Silence!” Cesare commanded sternly. “Did I question you, dog?” His beautiful, terrible eyes fastened upon Ramiro in a glance that defied the man to answer him. Cowed, like a hound at sight of the whip, Ramiro whimpered into silence. Cesare waved his hand in his direction, half-turning to the men-at-arms behind him. “Take and disarm him,” was his passionless command. And while they were doing his bidding, he turned to me and ordered the executioner beside me to unbind my hands and set me at liberty.