“You,” he answered vehemently, “you, Lazzaro Biancomonte of Biancomonte, whose father Costanzo of Pesaro stripped of his domains. The matters in those papers mean the ruin of the Lord of Pesaro. We are all but ripe to strike at him from Rome and when we strike he shall be so disfigured by the blow that all Italy shall hold its sides to laugh at the sorry figure he will cut. I would not say so much to any other living man but you and if I tell it you it is because I need your aid.” “The lion and mouse,” I murmured. “Why yes, if you will.” “And this man is the husband of your sister!” I exclaimed, almost involuntarily. “Does that imply a doubt of what I have said?” he flashed, his head thrown back, his brows drawn suddenly together. “No, no,” I hastened to assure him. He smiled softly. “Maddonna Lucrezia knows all—or nearly all. Of what else she may need to learn, that letter will inform her. It is the last thread, the last knot needed, before we can complete the net in which we are to hold that tyrant? Now, will you bear the letter?” Would I bear it? Dear God! To achieve the end in view I would have spent my remaining days in motley, making sport for grooms and kitchen wenches. Some such answer did I make him, and he smiled his satisfaction. “You shall journey as you are,” he bade me. “I am guided by my sister, assured that the coat of a Fool is stouter protection than the best hauberk ever tempered. When you have done your errand come you back to me, and you shall have employment better suited to one who bears the name of Biancomonte.” “You may depend upon me in this, my lord,” I promised gravely. “I shall not fail you.” “It is well” said he; and those wondrous eyes of his rested again upon my face. “How soon can you set out?” “At once, my lord. Does not the by-word say that a fool makes little preparation for a journey?” He nodded, and moved to a coffer, a beautiful piece of Venetian work in ultramarine and gold. From this he took a heavy bag. “There,” said he, “you will find the best of all travelling companions.” I thanked him, and set the bag on the crook of my left arm, and by its weight I knew how true he was to the notorious splendour of his race. “And this,” said he, “is a talisman that may serve to help you out of any evil plight, and open many a door that you may find locked.” And he handed me a signet ring on which was graven the steer that is the emblem of the House of Borgia. He raised aloft the hand on which was glistening the sacred amethyst—two fingers crooked and two erect. Wondering what this should mean, I stared inquiry. “Kneel,” he bade me. And realising what he would be about, I sank on to my knees whilst he murmured the Apostolic benediction over my bowed head. The rushes of the floor were the only witnesses of the smile that crept to my lips at this sudden assumption of his churchly office by that most worldly prince. CHAPTER II. THE LIVERIES OF SANTAFIOR