“I owe you a heavy debt, Messer Biancomonte,” he said, without any warmth, even now that his voice was laden with a message of gratitude. “It shall be discharged. It is thanks to your daring and resource that the seneschal Mariani was able to bring me this letter, this piece of culminating proof against Ramiro del’ Orca. It is fortunate for you that Mariani was not put to it to ride to Faenza to find me, or else I am afraid we had not reached Cesena in time to save your life. I met him some leagues this side of Faenza, as I was on my way to Sinigaglia.” He turned abruptly to Ramiro. “In this letter which Vitelli wrote you,” said he, “it is suggested that there are others in the conspiracy. Tell me now, who are those others? See that you answer me with truth, for I shall compel proofs from you of such accusations as you may make.” Ramiro looked at him with eyes rendered dull by agony. He moistened his lips with his tongue, and turning his head towards his men— “Wine,” he gasped, from very force of habit. “A cup of wine!” “Let it be supplied him,” said Cesare coldly, and we all stood waiting while a servant filled him a cup. Ramiro gulped the wine avidly, never pausing until the goblet was empty. “Now,” said Cesare, who had been watching him, “will it please you to answer my question?” “My lord,” said Ramiro, revived and strengthened in spirit by the draught, “I must ask your Excellency to be a little plainer with me. To what conspiracy is it that you refer? I know of none. What is this letter which you say Vitelli wrote me? I take it you refer to the Lord of Citta di Castello. But I can recall no letters passing between us. My acquaintance with him is of the slightest.” Cesare looked at him a second. “Approach,” he curtly bade him, and Ramiro came forward, one of the Borgia halberdiers on either side of him, each holding him by an arm. The Duke thrust the letter under his eyes. “Have you never seen that before?” Ramiro looked at it a moment, and his attempt at dissembling bewilderment was a ludicrous thing to witness. “Never,” he said brazenly at last. Cesare folded the letter and slipped it into the breast of his doublet. From his girdle he took a second paper. He turned from Ramiro. “Don Miguel,” he called. From behind his men-at-arms a tall man, all dressed in black, stood forward. It was Cesare’s Spanish captain, one whose name was as well known and as well-dreaded in Italy as Cesare’s own. The Duke held out to him the paper that he had produced. “You heard the question that I asked Messer del’ Orca?” he inquired. “I heard, Illustrious,” answered Miguel, with a bow. “See that you obtain me an answer to it, as well as an account of the other matters that I have noted on this list—concerning the misappropriation of stores, the retention of taxes illicitly levied, and the wanton cruelty towards my good citizens of Cesena. Put him to the question without delay, and record me his replies. The implements are yonder.”