He was moving restlessly as he spoke, swayed by the agitation of terror that possessed him like a devil. I looked at him now without dissembling my scorn. Even in such an hour as this the habit of hectoring cruelty remained him. “What shall it avail me to think?” I asked him in a voice that was as cold and steady as his was hot and quavering. “Were you a bird I might suggest flight across the sea to you. But you are a man, a very human, a very mortal man, although your father made you Lord of Pesaro.” Even as I was speaking, the thunder of the besiegers reached our ears—such a dull roar it was as that of a stormy sea in winter time. Maddened by his terror he stood over me now, his eyes flashing wildly in his white face. “Another word in such a tone,” he rasped, his fingers on his dagger, “and I’ll make an end of you. I need your help, animal!” I shook my head, my glance meeting his without fear. I was of twice his strength, we were alone, and the hour was one that levelled ranks. Had he made the least attempt to carry out his threat, had he but drawn an inch of the steel he fingered, I think I should have slain him with my hands without fear or thought of consequences. “I have no help for you such as you need,” I answered him. “I am but the Fool of Pesaro. Whoever looked to a Fool for miracles?” “But here is death,” he almost moaned. “Lord of Pesaro,” I reminded him, “your mercenaries are under arms by your command, and your knights are joining them. They wait for the fulfilment of your promise to lead them out against the enemy. Shall you fail them in such an hour as this?” He sank, limp as an empty scabbard, to a chair. “I dare not go. It is death,” he answered miserably. “And what but death is it to remain here?” I asked, torturing him with more zest than ever he had experienced over the agonies of some poor victim on the rack. “In bearing yourself gallantly there lies a slender chance for you. Your people seeing you in arms and ready to defend them may yet be moved to a return of loyalty.” “A fig for their loyalty,” was his peevish, craven answer. “What shall it avail me when I’m slain!” God! was there ever such a coward as this, such a weak-souled, water-hearted dastard? “But you may not be slain,” I urged him. And then I sounded a fresh note. “Bethink you of Madonna Paola and of the brave things you promised her.” He flushed a little, then paled again, then sat very still. Shame had touched him at last, yet its grip was not enough to make a man of him. A moment he remained irresolute, whilst that shame fought a hard battle with his fears. But those fears proved stronger in the end, and his shame was overthrown by them. “I dare not,” he gasped, his slender, delicate hands clutching at the arms of his chair. “Heaven knows I am not skilled in the use of arms.”