said Giovanpaolo, “I have heard tales of you from my sister. I have heard other things, not an hour ago, from my dear friend, Antonio Bardi. I have many good men about me, but what one of them, himself a fugitive in a city of enemies, would have imperiled his life by returning to a plague-house carrying food to a dying enemy? You are a man of war; wars are the fortune of Perugia. I offer you a choice and a bargain also. You have heard Lord Melrose release you from your engagement to him. Now give me your hand as you gave it to him and I shall on the one hand set Melrose free to go where he pleases, even into the camp of my enemies. On the other hand, you shall be my man and of your future I shall take good care. You already have a friend in my house.” And he smiled at the girl as he spoke.
But Tizzo looked from her and from handsome Giovanpaolo to the grim face and the flame-blue eyes of the Englishman.
“My lord,” he said, “you are my master. Tell me what I must do.”
“Why, Tizzo,” said the baron, “are you as blind as an owl? One of these days we shall meet again; but here is your fortune waiting for you. Take it, in God’s name. We shall not forget one another. Remember the secret stroke; it is my legacy to you. But turn your face to the fortune that smiles on you!”
The loss of blood had made Tizzo weak and dimmed his eyes a little but the smile of the girl was so bright that it lighted up his soul. In her it seemed to him that he could see his future, his fortune, his happiness. He gripped the hand of Melrose with one of his, but the other, slowly, he raised to the waiting grasp of Giovanpaolo.
CHAPTER 13
Several evenings later, Tizzo was dressing with care, helped busily by Elia Bigi, a one-eyed cutthroat, now become his devoted servant. He had drawn on long purple hose, a green doublet heavily embroidered with crimson, green shoes of soft leather that came halfway up the calf of his leg; he had belted on his sword which was balanced at the right hip by a dagger. Scabbard of both sword and dagger were enhanced by rich golden chasings. Over his neck he hung a chain of massive gold, each link variously and curiously worked by a Florentine goldsmith, and supporting an intaglio which showed the noble profile of the famous Giovanpaolo, that Achilles of the condottieri of Italy. He was now swinging over his shoulders a black cloak which shone with an elaborate arabesqueing in silver when a messenger came to the door with a letter.
When Elia gave him the letter, he was about to throw it aside, but his eye saw the arms of the Bardi stamped into the seal and therefore he knew that it was a missive from his dearest friend in the entire city. So he opened the letter and read:
To my brother Tizzo, given in haste from my house; greetings, life, happiness, honor.
Tizzo, go not where you have willed to go on this night. Let your heart sleep. Do not follow it.
Ask me no more for my meaning or for the source of my information.
If I were free to come to you, I would be with you now and beg you on my bended knees to stay at home.
If ever you entered my house like a brave angel from heaven; if ever you saved me from a foul death beyond the holy hand of the church, alone, desperate, hateful to men; if ever I have sworn to you the eternal love of a brother for a brother, believe me now, ask me nothing, and lie quietly in your chamber tonight. It is your time of danger. If it passes, tomorrow will dawn brightly and the rest of your life may be spent in peace.
Farewell. My heart burns with anxiety. Be wise. Be prudent.
With all the blood of my body, thine,
Antonio
When Tizzo had finished the reading, he was so overwhelmed that he threw himself into a chair and bowed his head.
“He begs me as he loves me…. True, Antonio loves me…. ‘Go not where you have willed to go on this night….’ How should he know where I am to go this night? Beatrice, my noble, glorious, generous, brave, gracious, most perfect Beatrice!… Let my heart sleep? How can I let it sleep when it strides like a lion through my body?… Ask not for his source of information, which means that he has it from a high and dangerous authority…. This is my time of danger? No, by God, it is my time of love! Elia!”
“Messer Tizzo?”
“I am called! And I must go. Is my horse ready?”
“It is, Messer Tizzo.”
“Not the muleheaded bay for carrying an armored man, but the chestnut Barb that flies?”
“The Barb is saddled. The silver bridle is on him and the yellow housings with the bells.”
“Bells?” said Tizzo. “Well, if they are waiting for me, let them hear me come! But give me that hat with the steel lining.”
“And the breastplate of Spanish mail?” queried Elia.
“Yes. Let me have it…. No, I shall not take it…. What manner of man would I be, Elia, if I feared to die? Love of her is my armor. Arrows will turn from me tonight.”
“I would put my money on a good crossbow bolt,” said Elia, “or more still on a knife-thrust aimed at the back, or perhaps a little in a few dozen tiles, dropped from an overhanging roof.”
Tizzo, staring for a moment at his servant, suddenly broke out of the room and ran hastily down the stairs. In the courtyard he found the slender chestnut Barb standing, a gift from the richest of all the Baglioni, that Grifone who was the most fortunate of men, married to the loveliest of ladies, with the whole world of happiness already in his hands, as it seemed. The occasion of the gift hung now beside the saddle in a case of embossed leather, a common woodsman’s ax. The deceptively slender frame of Tizzo had seemed incapable of great efforts and yet with that ax he had cloven the massive jousting helmet, the finest product of the Milanese armorers. It had been put on a horse-post and he had split it from top to bottom with that deft, quick swing which he had learned from Falcone’s foresters in his boyhood. The reward had been a loud exclamation that ran all the rounds of Perugia—and this beautiful Barb mare which now put out her lovely head and whinnied for her new master.
Once in the saddle, he flew the mare down the crooked, winding, paved streets of Perugia until the dark and massive arch of a city gate appeared before him.
“Open! Open!” he shouted, as he came up.
The captain of the gate stepped into his path, a tall man in complete armor except for the head, which was shaven close and gray with premature age.
“Are you drunk or a fool?” he asked bluntly, for the soldiers of the Baglioni were at ease in their manners to the townsfolk. “Is it my duty to open the gate to every young hothead who wishes to take the country air at night?”
“Does this help you, captain?” asked Tizzo, thrusting out a hand on which appeared a ring with a large incised emerald on it.
The captain saluted instantly. “Messer Tizzo!” he said. “The light is dim; I could not see your face; forgive me!”
He ordered the small portal to be unlocked and it was done at once.
“Give me fortune, my captain,” said Tizzo.
The
