She staggered to her great chair and sank into it, whilst we stood there, mute, regarding her. For myself, it was with difficulty that I repressed the burning things that rose to my lips. Had I given free rein to my tongue, I had made of it a whip of scorpions. And my anger sprang not from the things she said to me, but from what she said to that saintly man who held out a hand to help me out of the morass of sin in which I was being sunk. That he, that sweet and charitable follower of his Master, should be abused by her, should be dubbed blasphemer and have the cherished memory of his mother defiled by her pietistic utterances, was something that inflamed me horribly. But he set a hand upon my shoulder. “Come, Agostino,” he said very gently. He was calm once more. “We will go, as we are bidden, you and I.” And then, out of the sweetness of his nature, he forged all unwittingly the very iron that should penetrate most surely into her soul. “Forgive her, my son. Forgive her as you need forgiveness. She does not understand the thing she does. Come, we will pray for her, that God in His infinite mercy may teach her humility and true knowledge of Him.” I saw her start as if she had been stung. “Blasphemer, begone!” she cried again; and her voice was hoarse with suppressed anger. And then the door was suddenly flung open, and Rinolfo clanked in, very martial and important, his hand thrusting up his sword behind him. “Madonna,” he announced, “the Captain of Justice from Piacenza is here.” CHAPTER II. THE CAPTAIN OF JUSTICE There was a moment's silence after Rinolfo had flung that announcement. “The Captain of Justice?” quoth my mother at length, her voice startled. “What does he seek?” “The person of my Lord Agostino d'Anguissola,” said Rinolfo steadily. She sighed very heavily. “A felon's end!” she murmured, and turned to me. “If thus you may expiate your sins,” she said, speaking more gently, “let the will of Heaven be done. Admit the captain, Ser Rinolfo.” He bowed, and turned sharply to depart. “Stay!” I cried, and rooted him there by the imperative note of my command. Fra Gervasio was more than right when he said that mine was not a nature for the cloister. In that moment I might have realized it to the full by the readiness with which the thought of battle occurred to me, and more by the anticipatory glow that warmed me at the very thought of it. I was the very son of Giovanni d'Anguissola. “What force attends the captain?” I inquired. “He has six mounted men with him,” replied Rinolfo. “In that case,” I answered, “you will bid him begone in my name.” “And if he should not go?” was Rinolfo's impudent question. “You will tell him that I will drive him hence--him and his braves. We keep a garrison of a score of men at least--sufficient to compel him to depart.” “He will return again with more,” said Rinolfo.