In the court-yard of the castle of Imola were many horses and
attendants, and in the great hall various personages of high and low
degree. A scene very frequent in ancient and modern time, and which
never loses its terrors, was there going on. It was the trial of a man
accused of a capital offence. The Lord of Imola, possessing, as he had
stipulated, what was then called high and low justice, sat upon the
raised seat at the end of the hall, and by his side appeared the young
Prefect of Romagna, whom he had asked to assist him by his advice in a
case which seemed to present some difficulties. The hour was about
twenty minutes after noon, and the testimony had all been taken.
Before the tribunal stood a man, between two guards, of some forty
years of age, and of a ferocious aspect. But his cheek was pale, and
his eye dim with fear; for he had heard it distinctly proved that he
had been taken in the act of a coldblooded brutal assassination of a
young girl.
"I refuse this tribunal," he cried, hoarsely. "I do not acknowledge
the power of this court. I am of noble blood, as every one here knows;
and you have no authority to sentence me, Ramiro d'Orco."
"What say you, my lord prefect?" asked Ramiro, in his cold, quiet
tones. "I leave you to pass sentence."
"I can but give an opinion, my lord," replied Lorenzo; "I presume to
pass no sentence within your vicariate. You have, I know, power of
high justice; therefore his claim of nobility in your court can avail
him nothing, except in giving him the right to the axe rather than the
cord. His guilt is clear. His sentence must, I presume, be death."
"I will order him at once to the block," said Ramiro, sternly.
But Lorenzo interposed.
"Nay, give him time," he said; "I beseech you give him time. Death is
a terrible thing to all men, even to those who have lived the purest
lives; but, from what we have heard, this unhappy man's soul is loaded
with many a crime. Give him time for thought, for counsel, for
repentance. Abridge not the period of religious comfort. Send him not
hot from the bloody deed before the throne of the Almighty Judge."
"How long?" asked Ramiro, somewhat impatiently.
"Allow him four-and-twenty hours for preparation," said Lorenzo. "It
is short enough."
"So be it," said Ramiro d'Orco; "take him hence. Let him have a priest
to admonish him; and at this hour to-morrow, do him to death in the
court-yard by the axe. My lord prefect, will you ride with me? Our
horses are all ready, and I have again to leave the city for a few
hours. There are some curious things of the olden time by the road
side."
"Willingly," answered Lorenzo, "if we can be back before night, for I
expect, from day to day, intelligence from the Duke of Valentinois,
now lying before Forli."
Ramiro d'Orco assured him that their return would be before sunset;
and, descending to the court-yard, they mounted and rode out of the
Ravenna gate. Each was followed by numerous well-armed servants, and,
whether by accident or design, their trains were very equal in
numbers.
In the meantime, the unhappy criminal cast himself down upon a bench,
and fell into a fit of despairing thought. Even among the hardest and
harshest of the human race, there lingers long a certain feeling of
compassion for intense misery; but yet it is not probable that the
guards and attendants of Ramiro d'Orco would have suffered the
murderer to sit quietly there, had they not been moved by an
inclination to talk over the various events of the day, and hear the
scandal of the town and neighbourhood.
The Italian is very fond of scandal; but he loves it not for the sake
of the coarse enjoyment which many others feel in feeding on the
follies of their kind, but rather for the exercise of the fine-edged
wit, the keen but delicate sarcasm of his nation, to which it gives an
ample field. Even the hard men there present had each his slight
smile, and his light and playful jest at the subject of their
discourse. Alas! that subject was the fair wife of Lorenzo Visconti
and her train of French and Roman cavaliers.
They had not been thus engaged five minutes, when suddenly a door just
behind the seat of judgment opened, and the friar, Father Peter,
entered, looking eagerly round. The wit and the jest ceased instantly,
and the men looked at him in silence, with no very loving aspect. None
had any tangible cause of dislike; but men have antipathies
instinctive, deeply seated, not to be resisted.
With his still noiseless step Mardocchi advanced, stepped down, and
asked where Ramiro d'Orco was. They told him that their lord had gone
forth by the Ravenna gate, and his countenance fell. He said little,
however, for he was very careful of his words; and, after having gazed
at the murderer--the only one who seemed to take no notice of him--he
withdrew by the great door. At the head of the staircase he paused and
meditated for several minutes, then descended into the court and
sought the great gates. He there halted again, and muttered to
himself--
"Well, no matter? It may be as well that at first there should seem no
suspicion. It will look more natural. Slight causes at first, and then
graver doubts, and then formal inquiries, and then damning proofs.
That were the best course. But this Signor d'Orco of mine is so
thirsty for his blood, it has been difficult to restrain him hitherto,
and he may hurry on too fiercely. As well he should not know the thing
till night. She will be dead by two; by five or six they will be home,
and in the interval between I shall have time to prepare the public
mind for the tale of poison--without hinting at her husband, however.
Let that come afterwards."
But Mardocchi's plans were destined to be disappointed, in part at
least. He was not allowed time to prepare the public mind, as he
proposed; for though, from a vulgar assassin, he had risen by skill
and assiduous study to be something like a politician, and his schemes
were often deep and well laid, yet the finest politicians must often
be the slaves of circumstances, and sometimes their own cupidity
frustrates their best devised projects.
Friar Peter reached what was called the little piazza, and stopped for
a moment to speak with one of the Roman gentlemen who had followed
Eloise Visconti to Imola. The nobleman asked the monk several
questions in a low voice. "I really know not what is the lady's
malady," said Mardocchi at length, following out his purpose; "I
should say it is the effect of a slow poison, but that I know no one
has any cause to put her out of the way."
"Be not too sure of that," replied the other; "she left us in a very
sudden way to-day, and the servants told us, retired to her room ill.
But as to causes, I could tell you what I overheard, just before she
fainted last night. Hark, you, friar!"
But before he could add more, a man in a dusty dress came up and took
Mardocchi by the arm, saying, "I wish to speak with you in private,
father."
Mardocchi stepped aside with him, and the other continued, in a low
voice, "Mount your mule instantly and speed to Forli. The duke sends
you word he has need of you."
"What duke?" asked Mardocchi; "and what token does he send?"
"The Duke Valentinois, to be sure," replied the man; "do you not
remember me? I have seen you at the Borgia Palace a dozen times three
years ago. As for the token, he says, By the horse, and the month, and
the Church of San Bartholomew, come to him!"
"Will not to-morrow do?" asked Mardocchi. "I have matters of
importance to see to to-day."
"No," replied the other; "Don Cæsar says what has to be done must be
done to-night. You have four-and-twenty miles to ride, and it is now
near one hour past noon."
"Well, I will speed," said the friar; "I promised always to be ready
at his bidding, and I never fail to keep my word. But I have a letter
to write--nay, it is but short--ten words are enough. I will but step
into this scrivener's and borrow pen and paper. Then I will go for my
mule. It is a quick beast and enduring, and I shall reach Forli ere
night."
Thus saying, he sped away, and, procuring the means of writing,
considered for one moment, and then decided on the words he was to use
for the purpose of conveying his meaning without betraying his secret.
"Illustrious Lord," he wrote at length, "my part of the business is
over. I have confessed my penitent and given her the viaticum. It is
for you to discover whether she came to her present state fairly; and,
I doubt not, if her chamber is closely searched, and her women
examined, enough will be made manifest to fix the guilt upon the right
person. Go slowly and go surely. I am called suddenly to Forli by
commands I dare not disobey; but, if possible, I will be in Imola
again ere to-morrow night."
He read the words over more than once, and then saying, "That
discloses nothing," folded the paper and sealed it. His next
consideration was by whose hands he should convey it to Ramiro d'Orco.
The scrivener himself was an old acquaintance; and, after some
thought, he decided to entrust the letter to him. Many were the
injunctions he laid upon him to deliver it immediately on the Lord of
Imola's return: and then he sought his mule and set out for Forli.
But the scrivener was fond of knowing every one's secrets--it was part
of his profession in those days. Thus the seal of the letter was not
very long intact. The contents puzzled the old man. He saw there was a
double meaning; but he could not divise the enigma. "I will find out
by-and-bye," he said; and, sitting down, he deliberately took a copy
of the letter. Then, by a process still well known in Italy, he sealed
it up again, so that no eye could detect that the cover had been
opened.
About half an hour after all this had been done, people were seen
hurrying through the streets, and symptoms of agitation and terror
were apparent in the town.
"What is the matter? what is the matter, Signor Medico?" asked the
scrivener, running out from his booth, and catching the sleeve of a
physician who was walking more slowly than the rest.
"The Countess Visconti, the lady of the prefect, has been poisoned,
they say," replied the physician. "I know no more about it, for they
did not send for me, or perhaps I might have saved her."
"Then she is dead?" asked the scrivener.
"Ay, dead enough," answered the other, and walked on.
The scrivener had his own thoughts; but the name of Ramiro d'Orco had
become somewhat terrible in Imola, and Mardocchi's letter was safely
delivered as soon as that nobleman returned.