Trombin had rightly guessed that the fugitives would rest themselves in
Ferrara, where they would be safe within the Pope's dominions, and
beyond the reach of Venetian law. By the old road the city was nearly a
hundred miles from Padua, and it was only by a lavish use of money that
Stradella succeeded in reaching it at midnight, after leaving Padua soon
after sunrise. Ortensia was utterly exhausted, and even Pina, who was
very strong, was beginning to be worn out. They had trouble in getting
into the inn at that hour, and when they at last succeeded, they found
that there was only one room to be had, although, as the sleepy servant
who had let them in added, they might have the whole house to themselves
the next day, for all the travellers would be gone again long before
noon.
Pina slept with her mistress, while Stradella and his man rolled
themselves in their cloaks and lay down outside the door, with valises
for pillows; for they expected to be pursued, and though they had made
good time, they knew that mounted men, with frequent relays of horses,
might overtake them before morning. It was not Stradella's first
adventure, though it was his last, and he fully realised that Pignaver
would use every means to wreak his vengeance. It could not have occurred
to the runaways that three days would be wasted in searching Venice
before the pursuit actually began.
Even that knowledge could not have made Alessandro sleep more soundly,
since the fear of danger to Ortensia could not keep him awake, and he
slept as peacefully on the stone pavement of the corridor as ever he did
in the most luxurious bed.
But his man was awake and was watching for all the four, though he lay
quite still, rolled up in his brown cloak. For Cucurullo was one of
those people who sleep little at the best of times, and generally have
to content themselves with resting their bodies by lying motionless,
while they deaden thought as best they can with those melancholy devices
that are familiar to the sleepless.
The hunchback rested now, but was glad to lie awake, though he was well
aware that he deserved no especial credit for watching while his young
master slept soundly by his side. But he did not try to cheat time by
fancying that he was counting a flock of sheep that crowded through a
narrow gate into a field, or by saying the alphabet backwards, or by
repeating all the prayers he knew, which were many, for he was a
religiously inclined person, nor did he laboriously reckon how many
Apostolic florins there were in seventeen hundred and sixty-three and a
half Venetian ducats. On the contrary, he concentrated his mind to the
best of his ability on a problem which it seemed to him of the very
highest importance to solve at once; for it involved nothing less than
the salvation of Alessandro Stradella's soul.
Now Cucurullo, as I have said, was religiously inclined. He was not
devout in the same sense as the two cut-throats who lighted candles
before the image of Saint Francis for the success of their murderous
enterprise, and paid beforehand for masses to be said for the soul of
the man they were going to kill. He would not have denied that this was
a form of piety too, if any one had asked him his opinion. Everything,
he would have argued, was relative; and if you were going to stab a man
in the back, it was more moral to make an effort to save his soul than
to wish to destroy it with his body. He would have admitted this, for he
was charitable, even to such people as professional murderers. But his
own religion was quite of another sort; he was devotedly attached to his
master, he was deeply concerned for the latter's future welfare, and it
looked just now as if Stradella's chances of salvation would be slender
if any accident carried him off suddenly. Moreover, such an accident
might occur at any moment, for, like Stradella himself, he anticipated
that Pignaver would seek a speedy revenge.
Like the early Christians he was a pessimist about this world and an
optimist about the next; for that is usually the state of mind of those
who labour under any material or bodily disability, from slavery, which
is the worst, to blindness or deformity.
As a pessimist, therefore, Cucurullo thought that his master, Ortensia,
Pina, and himself had a most excellent chance of having their throats
cut within twenty-four hours, and he was rather surprised that it should
not have happened already.
As an optimist, on the other hand, he trusted that by his own exertions
he might so dispose matters as that his master and Ortensia should be
murdered while in a state of grace, and not in mortal sin; to be plain,
he was determined that they should be duly married before Pignaver's
agents despatched them. For he had been constrained to aid and abet his
master in more than one romantic adventure before now, and nothing had
come of any of them that was at all conducive to the young man's
salvation.
Poor Cucurullo knew the whole process of those affairs, as the
conjurer's assistant knows how the tricks are done. Even when Stradella
was at home, in his own room, his man had always been able to tell
whether he was in love or not. When he was not, he industriously
composed oratorios, or motets, or some other kind of serious music; but
when he was, he sang to himself, as a bird does in spring, improvising
both the words and the melody; or else he would sit still for an hour at
a time, doing nothing, but dreaming with open eyes and slightly parted
lips; or he would pace the floor impatiently, and go to the door every
five minutes to listen for a light footfall on the stairs. All this
Cucurullo had observed frequently; often, too, he had carried letters
and tokens, and had brought others back; and not a few times, by night,
he had held cloak and lute and rapier, while his master climbed up to a
balcony or a window high above. Many such things had Cucurullo done, and
had confessed them afterwards as misdeeds. Wretched sinner that he was,
he had even paid flattering compliments to a chambermaid to sweeten her
humour till she promised to take a message to her lady. This had seemed
to him particularly wicked, yet he had done it and would do it again, if
Stradella required such service, simply because he could not help it.
Now, however, all former adventures sank to nothing in comparison with
the present one. So far, the musician had lightly loved and ridden away;
but this time he had not ridden away alone, and, moreover, he was not
carrying off the buxom wife or daughter of some meek citizen who would
appeal in vain to the law and could do nothing without it, and who would
probably let the erring lady return to his home at the trifling price of
a sound beating when Stradella was tired of her. That would have been
bad enough, in all conscience; but this time the hare-brained singer had
done much worse, even from a worldly point of view; and looking at it
from another, Cucurullo thought that the irreparable nature of the deed
made it more wicked, besides the fact that all the persons concerned
might lose their lives by it. He was a very simple person in some ways.
Under the circumstances it seemed necessary before all things to convert
moral wrong into moral right by the simple intervention of a priest and
a wedding ring, after which the question of civil right, as the law
would regard it, would take care of itself well enough.
In the grey dawn Cucurullo's large unshaven face emerged from the ample
folds of his cloak, and his mild blue eyes seemed to review the
situation by daylight as he looked from his master's half-muffled
figure to Ortensia's closed door, and then towards the window at the end
of the passage. Then he sat up cautiously and drew his heels under him,
and because his body was so short and so completely covered up, he
looked as if he had none at all, and as if his big head were lying in a
nest of brown cloth on a pair of folded legs. Then, from just below his
chin, an immensely long arm stole out quietly, and his hand drew up
Stradella's cloak which had slipped from his shoulder; for the morning
air was chilly, though the spring was far advanced. Any one, coming on
him suddenly as he sat there, would have been startled as at the sight
of a supernatural being, consisting of a head, legs, and arms, all
joined together without any body.
The dawn brightened to day, and all sorts of noises began to come up
from below, echoing through the staircase and long passages of the
house; a distant door was opened and shut, then some one seemed to be
dragging a heavy weight over a rough floor; far off, some one else
whistled a tune; and then, all at once, came the clatter of many horses'
feet on the cobble-stones in the yard.
Cucurullo sprang up and ran on tip-toe to the window, instantly fearing
the arrival of mounted pursuers; but he only saw the stablemen leading
out the post-horses to be watered and groomed. When he turned to come
back he saw that he had waked Stradella, who was sitting up, yawning
prodigiously, and rubbing his eyes like a sleepy boy. He raised his hand
to stop his man, and then got up without noise and joined him near the
window.
'What is it?' he asked in a whisper, not without some anxiety.
'Only the post-horses, sir, but I was afraid of something else.'
'I wish we were already in Florence. This is too near Venice!'
'Better still in Rome,' said Cucurullo, gloomily. 'Still better in
Sicily, and altogether much better in Africa; but best of all in heaven,
sir, if you can manage to get there!'
'It is not the first time you and I have run a risk together,' observed
Stradella, slowly moving the back of his hand up and down against his
unshaven cheek.
'It is the first time you have risked the life of a lady,' answered
Cucurullo quietly, for he understood his master very well.
'We had better go down and see about getting horses,' Stradella
answered, and he led the way to the stairs, his man following in his
footsteps.
The sun was rising now, and there was much bustling and clattering in
the yard, and sousing and splashing of cold water about the fountain; a
dozen horses were tied up to rings in the wall on one side, and the
stablemen were grooming some of them industriously while others waited
their turn, stamping now and then upon the cobble-stones, and turning
their heads as far as they could to see what was going on behind them
and on each side. Three men were washing the huge coach that ran to
Rovigo one day and back the next, and several smaller conveyances stood
beyond it in a row, still covered with dust from yesterday, for the
weather had been dry.
As in many inns of that time, the innkeeper was also the postmaster.
Stradella found him under the arched entrance to the yard, giving
instructions to the cook, who was just going to the market accompanied
by a scullion; the latter carried three empty baskets on his head, one
inside of the other.
'You can have no horses to-day,' said the host, in answer to Stradella's
demand, and he shook his head emphatically.
'No horses! It is impossible! It is absolutely necessary that we should
go on at once.'
The innkeeper was a square-shouldered Romagnole with grey hair, red
cheeks, and sharp black eyes. He shook his head again.
'I have not a horse to give you,' he said. 'Everything in my stable was
engaged beforehand for the Nuncio. I cannot give you the Government's
horses from the Rovigo coach, can I? Patience! That is all I can say.'
Stradella began to ask questions. The Nuncio, on his way to Verona and
Austria, had spent three days in the inn, both to rest himself and also
to be sure of having enough horses ahead to go on with, and word had
been sent to Mantua to make all the necessary arrangements. He should
have gone by Modena, but the road was in a bad state. A bridge had
broken down, and he had been forced to pass through Ferrara.
'But surely,' said the musician, 'I can hire a pair of horses of some
sort in the town, by paying a good price for them!'
No. The Nuncio had hired everything. Did the gentleman suppose that a
Papal Nuncio could travel with as few as eight or ten horses? He needed
about fifty in all. That was why he proceeded so slowly. There was not
another animal to be had in the town, horse or mule, that could be put
to a wheeled vehicle--not one! The gentleman might hire a riding-horse
or two, but the innkeeper had been told that he had a lady and her
tire-woman with him. Patience! A day would soon pass, Ferrara was a fine
town, well worth seeing, and he could go on to-morrow morning in the
Bologna coach, which would arrive from that city at noon to-day.
Clearly there was not the smallest possibility of being able to get on
during the next twenty-four hours. Stradella's face was very grave as he
turned away, and Cucurullo was paler than before.
Upstairs Ortensia had wakened just then and had called Pina, who got up
and opened the window wide, letting in the air with the morning sun.
Utterly unprovided as the two women were, they had slept half-dressed,
and as Ortensia rose the nurse threw one of the two brown cloaks over
her bare shoulders and fastened it round her neck.
For a few moments after she had opened her eyes the young girl had not
quite understood where she was, for she had lain down exhausted, and
sleep had come to her as her head touched the pillow. Now, in the broad
daylight, when she had plunged her face into cold water, she realised
everything, and the colour rose slowly to her throat and cheeks. She
went to the window and stood there, turned away from Pina and looked
out. Below her lay the chief public square of the city; on the left rose
the huge castle, the most gloomy and forbidding she had ever seen. She
had never heard of Nicholas Third of Este nor of his wife Parisina,
fair, evil, and ill-fated, nor of handsome Ugo, who died an hour before
her for his sins and hers, in the dark chamber at the foot of the Lion
Tower; but if Pina had known the story and had told it to her in all its
horror, Ortensia would have felt that it must be true, and that only
such tragedies as that could happen within such walls. They were so
stern, so square, so dark; the towers rose so grimly out of the black
waters of the moat! It was of bad augury to look at them, she thought,
and she drew back from the window and sat down where she could see only
the sky.
Pina was making such preparations for her mistress's toilet as were
possible. Being a prudent woman she had brought in her pocket three
objects of the highest usefulness, a piece of white Spanish soap, a
comb, and a shabby little old rolling work-case of yellow leather, in
which there were needles and thread and pins. The figure of a wild
animal, which might have been meant for a bear, was embroidered in black
thread on the outer flap of the case. Pina had used it ever since
Ortensia could remember, and seemed to value it as much as any of her
few possessions. It was a very useful little thing, and she kept it
always well filled with sewing materials.
As the young girl did not move and showed no inclination to dress
herself, Pina came behind her and began to let down and comb her hair,
which she had not even taken down on the previous night, being far too
much exhausted to think of such a thing. She submitted her head
willingly to the skilled hands of her nurse.
'Where is he?' she asked after a time, and she felt that she was
blushing again.
'They slept on the floor in the passage,' Pina answered. 'Perhaps they
are asleep still. You shut your eyes as soon as you lay down, but I
opened the door again and looked out before I went to bed. Signor
Alessandro asked me if we needed anything, and then said good-night.'
'Will you go and see if they are still there, please?'
Pina crossed the room, drew back the bolt, and put out her head, looking
up and down the passage. There was no one to be seen, and she shut the
door again without bolting it. She came back and again began to comb out
the girl's hair.
'They are not there,' she said. 'Probably Signor Alessandro is ordering
the horses. He will come in a few minutes and tell us at what time we
are to start.'
A short silence followed.
'Have you ever been here before?' Ortensia asked presently.
'Yes,' Pina answered, 'I have been here before. I do not like Ferrara.'
'Why not? Have you any particular reason for not liking it?'
'It was here that my thumb was hurt,' said the nurse. 'That is a fair
reason, is it not?' She laughed rather harshly. 'To hate a place because
one has had an accident in it! The men would say that is just like a
woman!'
'I hope I may never come here again, either,' Ortensia answered. 'How
did you hurt your thumb?'
'That is a long story, my lady. But why do you also dislike the place
already? You have only looked out of the window once.'
'I saw the castle, and I thought it was of bad augury, for it looks like
a great prison.'
'There are prisons in it without any light, very deep down,' said Pina
quietly. 'The Pope's Legate lives in the upper part. The Legate is the
Papal Governor, you know, my lady.'
'I did not know. But the ugly castle is not the real reason why I do not
like Ferrara. I could not tell any one else, but I think I can tell you,
Pina.'
She turned her head half round under the nurse's hands, looked up
sideways, and then hesitated. It was not easy to explain.
'What is it, my lady?' asked the serving-woman. 'You can tell old Pina
anything.'
'It is all so different from what I thought it would be,' Ortensia said
in a rather low voice, and again a blush rose in her cheek.
'I think I understand,' Pina said, steadily combing out the heavy auburn
hair.
'You see,' Ortensia explained, 'we all four got into the gondola
together, and there was that long row to the land, and that dreadful
night in the cart on the road to Padua--and then the half-hour at
daybreak, while he was getting the carriage, and then the journey
here--and last night--and now----'
She did not finish the sentence, hoping that Pina would really
understand.
'Yes,' the woman said quietly. 'You have not been alone together for a
moment since we left Venice, and that is not what you expected.'
'No,' Ortensia answered in the hurt tone of a disappointed child, 'I
thought it was going to be quite different! And now we shall start again
and drive all day and half the night, and then it will be just the same,
I suppose!'
'Once in Florence, or even in Bologna, there will be no more hurry,'
said Pina in a consoling tone. 'Besides, my lady, you can be properly
married then.'
'Of course, of course! We shall be married as soon as we can, but all
the same----'
'All the same, it would be pleasant to spend half-an-hour together
without old Pina always listening and looking on!'
The nurse smiled and shook her head, but Ortensia could not see her, and
did not think her tone was very encouraging; it sounded as if 'old Pina'
thought it was going to be her duty to play chaperon two or three days
longer, which was not at all what Ortensia wished.
'If he had even shown that he was a little disappointed, too----' the
girl began, and then she stopped.
'That would not have been good manners, my lady,' Pina said primly.
'When a gentleman has carried off a young lady, with her own consent,
the least he can do is to look pleased, I am sure!'
'I thought you would understand better,' Ortensia answered in a tone of
disappointment.
Some one knocked at the door, not loudly but sharply, and as if in a
hurry; Pina went at once to see who it was, and found Stradella himself
outside.
'May I come in?' he asked quickly.
Beyond Pina, as he looked in, he saw Ortensia in her brown cloak, with
her hair down and all combed out over her shoulders, and without waiting
for an answer he pushed past the nurse and went to her. Instinctively
she drew the cloak more closely round her, but she looked up with a
bright smile, which vanished when she saw his expression in the strong
light. He spoke anxiously, without even a word of greeting.
'There are no horses to be had,' he said. 'I have done my best, but the
Pope's Nuncio is passing through and has engaged everything there was.
There is not even a public coach to Bologna till to-morrow morning. I am
more distressed than I can tell you! I have sent my man out to see if he
can find anything, and he will if there is a beast to be had. If not, we
shall have to wait here.'
While he was speaking, the door had closed softly and Pina was gone.
Ortensia saw her go out and put out one hand timidly between the folds
of the cloak, for her arm was bare, and she tried to cover it. At the
same time the glorious colour rose in her face, the third time since
she had opened her eyes that morning.
'I am glad,' she said simply, as soon as her hand was in his.
He glanced behind him and saw that Pina had disappeared. Then without a
word he drew the lovely girl up to him, and for a while they stood
clasped in each other's arms; and she forgot that hers were bare, and he
scarcely knew it; and if their faces drew back one from the other for a
few seconds, it was that their eyes might meet in one another's depths;
and the broad morning sun shone full upon the two through the open
window, making the girl's auburn hair blaze like dark red gold, and a
white radiance glowed in her pure forehead and snowy arms.
Stradella shivered a little, even in the sunshine, as he let her go, and
she sank upon her chair, finding his hand again and holding it fast as
if she feared lest he should leave her. It had been a strange wooing, in
which song had played a greater part than words; and as for anything
else, he had kissed her twice on that night when he had climbed into the
loggia, and not again till now. Had he loved her less, he would have
laughed at himself for the innocence of such a love-making; but it was
all unlike anything that had ever happened to him before, and, moreover,
he had no time for such reflections at the present moment, since every
hour of delay might mean the nearer approach of danger, not to him only,
but to Ortensia herself.
'We are not far enough from Venice,' he said, when he spoke at last. 'I
would give the world to have you safe in Florence!'
'My uncle will not even try to catch us,' Ortensia said calmly. 'You do
not know him. When he finds out that we are gone together he will fear a
scandal, and he fears ridicule still more. He will tell his friends that
he has sent me to the country, or to a convent, and by and by he will
tell them that I am dead. He dreads nothing in the world so much as
being laughed at!'
She was so sure that she laughed herself as she thought of him, and
almost wished that he might hear her, though he was certainly the very
last person she wished to see just then. But Stradella thought
otherwise.
'No one would laugh at him if he had you assassinated,' he said.
'I am not afraid of that!' Ortensia smiled at the mere idea of such a
thing. 'Why are you standing? Come, bring that chair and sit down beside
me, for we are alone at last!'
He was well used to women's ways, but the ways of grown women of the
world are not those of innocent maidens of seventeen; her perfect
simplicity and fearlessness were quite new to him, and had a wonderful
charm of their own. He drew a chair to the window and sat down close to
her, and afterwards he was glad that he had done as she wished.
It was all very strange, he thought even then. As yet, a love-affair had
mostly meant for him a round of more or less dangerous adventures by
night, such as climbing of balconies, unlocking of forbidden doors with
stolen keys, imprisonment in dark closets and wardrobes, and sometimes
flight in break-neck haste. That had usually been the material side,
whereas now, reckoning up his risks, he had only climbed once to a
loggia at night, and once he had been taken for a thief and chased, and
that was all, excepting the actual escape from Venice, which had been
without danger until now. On the other hand, there had stood to love's
credit, as against those insignificant perils, only two kisses and no
more, exchanged when he had been so drenched with rain that it had been
quite out of the question to put a dripping arm round his lady's waist.
And now, for the first time in his life, he was suddenly alone with an
innocent girl of seventeen who loved him, and whom he loved even to the
point of having carried her off out of her house; he was alone with her,
in her own room, when she had but just risen from sleep, and she was
sitting beside him in the early sunshine, that wove a blaze of glory
round her young beauty, and her soft white hand held his; and he was not
satisfied as she was, but wished it were night instead of day, and
wished the sun were the moon, and that there were sweet silence without
instead of the thousand cries and echoes of a waking Italian city. For
all he had ever known of joy on earth, or ever hoped for, he would not
have wished that Ortensia's face could change into any that had once
been dear to him under the summer moonlight of the south; yet he felt
strangely constrained and awkward, like a schoolboy in love, not knowing
what to do or say in the overwhelming daylight.
'You are not glad, as I am,' Ortensia said after the long silence.
At the sound of her voice he found himself again, and he lifted her hand
and pressed it to his lips.
'I am afraid for you,' he answered. 'When a man has taken the most
precious thing in the whole world, and carries it with him through an
enemy's country, he may well be afraid lest some harm come to it on the
way.'
'But this is not the enemy's country!' laughed Ortensia, too happy to be
serious. 'Are we not a hundred miles from Venice and my uncle?'
'They say the Republic has long arms, love, and the Senator can count on
every one of the Ten to help him. The law cannot touch us merely for
having run away together, it is true, but what if he invents a crime?
What if he swears that we have robbed him? The Pope's Government will
not harbour thieves nor shelter criminals against the justice of Venice!
We should be arrested and given up, that is all, and then sent back!
This is what I fear much more than that he should have us tracked and
murdered by assassins, as many Venetians would do in this civilised
age!'
'But we have taken nothing,' Ortensia objected, quite unable to be
afraid of anything while her hand was in his. 'How can he accuse us of
robbing him? Pina and I have a comb and piece of soap between us! As for
money, she may have a little small change, for all I know, but I have
nothing.'
'I have a good deal,' Stradella answered; 'quite enough to justify such
an accusation as that. But, after all, nothing can hinder such a thing,
if it is going to be. I dare say you are right--it is my anxiety for you
that makes me think of everything that might happen.'
'Nothing will happen,' Ortensia said softly, 'nothing will happen to
part us!'
Still holding his hand, she gazed into his eyes with an expression of
ecstatic happiness, and she could not have found another word, even if
she had needed speech; then suddenly her bare arm circled his neck like
a flash of white light, for he was very close to her, and she took him
unawares and kissed him first.
She laid her head upon his breast a moment later, and he pressed her to
him and buried his face in her sweet auburn hair. His heart overflowed
in many soft and loving words.
The door opened while he was speaking, and both started and sat upright,
expecting to see Pina, and ashamed to be surprised even by her. Then
Ortensia uttered a sharp cry and Stradella sprang to his feet.
Two big men in rusty black and long boots had entered the room, and were
advancing. They were broad-shouldered men, of a determined bearing, with
sinister faces, and both wore swords and kept their slouch hats on their
heads. Stradella was unarmed, and could only stand before Ortensia,
awaiting their onset, for he had not a doubt but that they were Bravi
sent by Pignaver to murder him. To his surprise they stopped before him,
and one of them spoke.
'You had better come quietly with us,' the man said.
Stradella understood at once that the two intruders were sbirri, come to
arrest him, and he was sure that Pignaver had pursued precisely the
course he had explained to Ortensia, and that he was going to be accused
of robbery.
'I am a Sicilian and a Spanish subject,' he said. 'By what right do you
dare to arrest me?'
'We know very well that you are a Sicilian, Master Bartolo,' answered
the man. 'And as for the rest, it is known to you, so come with us and
make no trouble, or it will be the worse for you.'
'My name is not Bartolo!' cried the musician indignantly. 'I am
Alessandro Stradella, the singer.'
'Any one can say that,' replied the man. 'Come along! No nonsense, now!'
'I tell you, I am Stradella----'
But the man glanced at his companion, and the two had him by his arms in
an instant, though he struggled desperately. They were very strong
fellows, and between them could have thrown a horse, and though
Stradella was supple and quick, he was powerless between them.
During the short exchange of words Ortensia had leaned back against the
window-sill in frightened surprise, but when she saw her lover suddenly
pinioned and dragged towards the door, she flew at the sbirri like a
tigress, and buried her fingers in the throat of the nearest, springing
upon him from behind. The fellow shook her off as a bull-terrier would a
rat, and, while keeping his hold on the prisoner with one hand, he
tripped her roughly with his foot and the other, by a common
professional trick, throwing her heavily upon the brick floor. Before
she could rise, the men had got Stradella outside, and as she struggled
to her feet she heard the key turned, and knew that she was locked in.
In wild despair she beat upon the solid panels with her small fists, but
no one answered her. Stradella's man was scouring the town for horses,
and Pina was not within hearing.
Meanwhile the singer had submitted, as soon as he realised that he had
no chance of escape, and that, unless the men were acting a part, he had
been taken for a man called Bartolo, and would be able to explain the
mistake as soon as he was brought before a responsible officer or
magistrate. Indeed, when this view presented itself to him, he was only
anxious to facilitate the course of events as much as possible, and
spoke civilly to his captors, while walking quietly downstairs between
them; but they did not let go of his arms for that reason.
Below, in the arched entrance, the innkeeper was waiting, in
conversation with three other sbirri, dressed and armed much in the same
manner as the two who had made the arrest.
'It is a mistake,' Stradella said to the host. 'I am taken for another
man, and as soon as I have explained who I am, I shall return. I shall
be obliged if you will attend to the wants of the lady and her
serving-woman.'
'Guests who quit the house without paying their score generally leave
their luggage as security,' answered the host with an insulting sneer,
and pointing towards the entrance.
There, to his surprise, Stradella saw two sturdy porters, laden with his
valises, his cloak, and his lute, and evidently waiting to accompany
him.
'What are you doing, you scoundrels?' he cried. 'Put down my things!'
But they only grinned and began to move on, and as he was hurried out of
the door into the square, they jogged across the square at a trot with
their burdens. A few moments later he followed them across the
drawbridge of the castle and in under the great gate where a papal
soldier, armed with halberd and broadsword, was pacing up and down on
guard.
Just as he disappeared, Pina emerged upon the square from a narrow
street at its northern end, and hastened to the entrance of the inn. The
host was standing there, his legs apart, his arms crossed, and his small
black cap on one side of his head. He stopped Pina.
'Your master has changed his lodgings,' he said in a jocular tone, and
pointing with his thumb towards the castle. 'His Excellency the Legate
has just taken him in free.'
Pina understood instantly, and drew back a step in consternation.
'If you mean to stay here, you must pay in advance,' continued the host,
'for your master has taken all the luggage with him. Perhaps he expects
to spend some time with the Legate.'
'But we have no money of our own!' Pina cried in great distress. 'What
are we to do?'
'That is your affair,' answered the innkeeper. 'You have had your
night's lodging from me, and that is all you will get for nothing; so,
unless you can pay, take your mistress somewhere else.'
Pina bent her head, and went upstairs without more words. A quarter of
an hour later she and Ortensia left the inn, with the hoods of their
brown cloaks drawn over their heads. The young girl leaned on her
nurse's arm, and walked unsteadily.
Their worldly possessions, besides the clothes they wore, consisted of a
piece of Castile soap, a comb, and Pina's work-case.