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_Title:_ The Tyrant
_Date of first publication:_ 1925
_Author:_ Rafael Sabatini, 1875-1950
_Date first posted:_ Feb. 23, 2015
_Date last updated:_ Feb. 23, 2015
Faded Page eBook #20150248

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                               THE TYRANT

                      AN EPISODE IN THE CAREER OF
                             CESARE BORGIA

                         _A Play in Four Acts_

                                   BY
                            RAFAEL SABATINI


                               _TORONTO:_
                             _THOMAS ALLEN_
                                 _1925_




                       _Printed in Great Britain_




                                   TO
                             MATHESON LANG




                                PREFACE


It is demanded of the writer of fiction, whether novelist or dramatist,
that the events he sets forth shall be endowed with the quality of
verisimilitude. What he writes need not necessarily be true; but, at
least, it must seem to be true, so that it may carry that conviction
without which interest fails to be aroused. The historian appears to lie
under no such restraining obligation. Whilst avowed Fiction is
scornfully rejected when it transcends the bounds of human probability,
alleged Fact would sometimes seem to be the more assured of enduring
acceptance the more flagrantly impossible and irreconcilable are its
details. And this not merely by the uninformed, who are easily imposed
upon by the label of History, but even by those whose activities would
appear to connote a degree of mental training at least sufficient to
dispel the credulity that lies ever cheek by jowl with ignorance.

Were it otherwise one of the criticisms of this play which found
utterance in some quarters on its first presentation in London would not
have been that it “whitewashes” Cesare Borgia, that it distorts
historical records for the purposes of the theatre, and that—either out
of venality, or, perhaps, ignorance—it presents a Duke of Valentinois
who in nothing resembles the Duke of Valentinois of sober history.

The Duke of Valentinois of sober history is evidently conceived by these
particular critics to have been a gentleman with no occupation in life
other than the pursuit of murder, incest, and other similar avocations,
a prince with so much poisoning and poignarding to do in the ordinary
way of business that no time remained him for any of the activities
common to a fifteenth-century ruler; in short, a Duke of Valentinois as
ludicrous and impossible in fiction as he would have been ludicrous and
impossible in fact.

What I mean by this is that the argument of “whitewash” would appear to
rest, if it rests upon anything at all, upon the following syllogism: We
have been taught that Cesare Borgia in the course of his career
murdered, or procured the murder of a number of persons, and that he
practised various unmentionable abominations; the Cesare Borgia in this
play does not commit or procure, in the course of the events it
reflects, the murder of anybody, nor is he shown engaged in vices of any
peculiar depravity; therefore this Cesare Borgia is not the Cesare
Borgia of history.

The matter would not be worth mentioning at all if it were not for the
undeniable circumstance that those who take this view have behind them
the authority, if not of historians generally, at least of a certain
school of historians, who derive their histories from those of
Guicciardini, Giovio, Matarazzo, and a host of others, who, through some
four centuries, have been busily re-editing and amplifying the grotesque
and sensational tale of Borgia turpitude.

This school—ignoring all contemporary evidences of a refutatory
character—represents Cesare Borgia as a monster of infamy, a devil
incarnate, a gross sensualist, an inhuman scoundrel without a single
redeeming feature. He is accused (without a rag of tenable evidence,
either of fact or of motive, upon which to hang the accusation) of the
murder of his own brother the Duke of Gandia; he murdered, we are told,
his brother-in-law Alfonso of Aragon; he attempted the murder of his
brother-in-law Giovanni Sforza, Lord of Pesaro; he poisoned his cousin
and friend the Cardinal Giovanni Borgia; he stabbed Pedro Caldes in the
very arms of the Pope, whither the unfortunate chamberlain had fled for
shelter from his fury; and he is charged with procuring in several ways
the death of many others. And these are the least of his alleged crimes.
In the same light and irresponsible fashion, without the support of any
substantiating evidence, with a cynical disregard of the abundant
evidence that might be employed in refutation, he is, together with all
his family, accused of wholesale incest and other abominable practices.

Of such a character and quality are the details we are afforded of his
misdeeds that if, instead of being the creation of writers who described
themselves as historians, Cesare Borgia had been the creation of an
avowed romancer, he would have been slain for all time by the ridicule
of the public; for such is the conception’s utter lack of verisimilitude
that it belongs, not to the realm of sensational melodrama, but to
Bedlam.

Elsewhere, and at length—in a “Life of Cesare Borgia,” which is quite
frankly a brief for the defence—I have dealt critically and in detail
with this curious page of Italian history, examining the sources and
applying to the available evidence the ordinary tests. So much would be
out of place here, nor is it necessary for my immediate aims.

For the moment, and for the purposes of my present argument, let us
admit that the Duke of Valentinois perpetrated all the fantastic crimes
and practised all the equally fantastic abominations with which he is
charged.

From the pages of Guicciardini, written in retirement at his villa at
Arcetri, a quarter of a century after Cesare Borgia’s death, you will
hardly gather that the Duke had any other occupations. And it is
curious—in itself a proof of that deliberate malice with which
Guicciardini is branded by such contemporaries as Sebastiano Macci—that
whilst none of the things which the Florentine historian relates of
Cesare Borgia are of the slightest historical significance, he omits
almost entirely to mention those deeds and achievements which had so
wide and lasting an effect upon Italian politics, and which are the only
matters it is a sincere historian’s function to record.

It is elsewhere that you must seek the details of the admirably
conducted conquest and reorganization of the Romagna, details which
reveal Valentinois as a leader of great military skill, a brilliant
strategist and an enlightened administrator. Still more admirable does
he appear as a ruler over those same Romagna states once he had wrested
them from the turbulent, rapacious despots under whom they had
previously groaned. He restored order out of revolting chaos,
established courts for the proper dispensation of justice, so that
persons and property could depend upon that protection which they had
not known for generations.

The tyrants he deposed went raging up and down Italy, inveighing against
him, dubbing him antichrist and charging him with all manner of
unutterable wickedness, seeking actively to enlist for his destruction
the hostility which his growing power and boundless ambition had already
aroused in the great states of Venice, Naples, Milan and Florence. But
the people of the tyrannies upon which he made war hailed this
antichrist as their deliverer, and they afforded him such ready and
loyal service that in more instances than one his conquests, as a
consequence, were bloodlessly effected.

These facts—unlike those matters of his personal turpitude—are to-day
beyond the realm of controversy. They are accepted by the most hostile
of Borgia critics. Even Gregorovius, most bitter and unrestrained of
antipapal historians, finds it necessary to pay the following tribute to
a man of whom he can say little else that is favourable:

    It is undeniable that his government was energetic and good; for
    the first time the Romagna enjoyed peace and was rid of her
    vampires. In the name of Cesare justice was administered by
    Antonio di Monte Sansovino, president of the Ruota of Cesena, a
    man universally beloved.

Among the many contemporary pen-portraits that survive we have the
following in a letter to his government from Bishop Soderini, Ambassador
of Florence to the Duke, written at a time when the relations between
Cesare Borgia and the Florentine Republic were none too friendly:

    This lord is very magnificent and splendid, and so spirited in
    feats of arms that there is nothing so great but that it must
    seem small to him. In the pursuit of glory and the acquisition
    of dominions he never rests, and he knows neither danger nor
    fatigue. He moves so swiftly that he descends upon a place
    before it is known that he has set out for it. He knows how to
    make himself beloved of his soldiers, and he has in his service
    the best men in Italy. These things render him victorious and
    formidable, and to these is yet to be added his constant good
    fortune. He argues with such sound reason that to dispute with
    him would be a long affair. His wit and eloquence never fail
    him.

Other pen-portraits confirming this exist in abundance, some emanating
from friendly, some from hostile sources. They find in the pages of
Gregorovius’s “Geschichte der Stadt Rom” the following summary:

    Nature had been prodigal of gifts to Cesare Borgia. Like
    Tiberius of old he was the most beautiful man of his day, with
    the shapely vigorous body of an athlete. He held his senses in
    subjection to an intellect that was acute and cold. He exercised
    a magnetic attraction towards women; but still more formidable
    was the magnetic attraction which he exercised towards men,
    disarming them. Acute and perspicacious, swift as lightning in
    his actions, endowed with great knowledge of men, he was
    remorseless, using virtue and vice indifferently to attain his
    ends.

Finally, as a lasting monument to Cesare Borgia’s achievements, energy,
industry and varied intellectual gifts, we have “The Prince,” that
grammar of statecraft from the pen of Niccolò Macchiavelli, inspired by
his close observation of the methods adopted by Cesare Borgia, who is
held up throughout as the model upon which princes should frame their
conduct.

Enough will have been said to show that anyone approaching the study of
this subject for the purposes of the theatre will, if he probe deeply
enough into history, find himself confronted with two Cesare Borgias.
There is, on the one hand, the able soldier, the astute statesman, the
physically and intellectually gifted prince of those eye-witnesses
Soderini, Macchiavelli, and some others. And there is, on the other
hand, the depraved voluptuary, the bloodthirsty murderer, the
unmitigated scoundrel of the compilations of Guicciardini and Giovio.

The popular conception of the Borgia family is based upon the latter,
or, rather, upon their extensive elaboration in a seventeenth-century
novel by Gregorio Leti. This novel has been rendered well known by the
adaptations of it which Dumas (in his “Crimes Célèbres”) and Victor Hugo
(in his “Lucrezia Borgia”) have given to the world. Dumas did not
consider it necessary to acknowledge the source of his own romance.
Victor Hugo acknowledged his borrowing from that crude, ill-constructed,
ill-written and salacious piece of fiction, by putting it forward as a
serious authoritative historical document, and so imposed upon a world
that knew no better.

If I had attempted to write of Cesare Borgia a biographical play I must
of necessity have constructed it either upon the parent story in
Guicciardini, together with its lusty well-developed child in Gregorio
Leti, its still lustier grandchildren in Dumas and Hugo and the
subsequent and ubiquitous great-grandchildren, or else upon the very
definite and very different—though by no means singular—conception
which I derived from my own independent researches.

If I had adopted the first of these alternatives, I should have been
guilty of an insincerity which would have brought its own punishment.
Moreover, the result would inevitably have been a melodrama so
flagrantly absurd that any intelligent audience visually beholding the
materialization of that farrago of ill-invented rubbish—with whatever
art it might have been presented—would have laughed it off the stage.
In that way, it is true, I might have rendered valuable historical
service by destroying for all time, by complete exposure, the Borgia
myth.

If I had adopted the second alternative I should have been under the
necessity of constructing that very difficult and tedious thing, a
controversial drama. I should have been accused—assuming that I could
have found production for such a play—of departing from the dramatist’s
proper function of entertaining an audience, for the purpose of
expounding an historical thesis. And since, in any case, the limitations
of the theatre would never have permitted me fully to develop the
arguments through which my thesis must be expounded, persons who study
their history _ad hoc_ in the Encyclopædia Britannica and similar books
of concise and summarized reference might indeed have been justified in
raising against me the cry of “whitewash.”

I mention this merely in passing, because the writing of a biographical
play on Cesare Borgia or any other historical character would not at any
time attract me. The career of an active man of achievements, even when
it is so brief a career as Cesare Borgia’s, can hardly prove of interest
when telescoped into the compass of a three-hours’ entertainment. More
commendable seems the method of reflecting the man’s personality and
psychology in a single incident that shall be typical of the activities
of his career. The incident need not be entirely real, although to have
any true historical value it must be set in circumstances of reality and
at least amid happenings that are actually true. Moreover, in this way
it should be possible—or so I fancied—entirely to avoid all
controversy. I would present the Cesare Borgia of Soderini and
Macchiavelli, without, however, urging anything that should contradict
what has been written by Guicciardini and Giovio. In other words, I
would show Cesare Borgia moving through a set of circumstances that
should reveal his daring, his resource, his splendour, his athletic
physical beauty, his personal magnetism, his intellectual acuteness, his
ruthlessness, his merciless ambition, his typical fifteenth-century
cruelty and his remorseless egotism, whilst at the same time in nothing
suggesting that he could not in a different set of circumstances have
perpetrated any or all of the villainies with which the popular
conception charges him.

Therefore, I was careful that no character in the play save Cesare
Borgia himself should have a single good word to say of Cesare Borgia,
or anything that might have sounded like an argument in his favour. And
the very explanations which, in passing, Cesare himself offers of the
horrible tales that are told of him in Italy are the explanations which
he would have offered—which we know, in fact, that he did
offer—whether those tales were true or not. The actual historical
incidents employed in the construction of the story are incidents about
which there is no controversy between the two schools; whilst if Cesare
Borgia is endowed with the attributes which Soderini and Macchiavelli
admired in him, yet the invented set of circumstances and his
remorseless conduct in them are such as Guicciardini might not have
hesitated to include in his history, if they had been invented
instead—like so many other political slanders—by some Roman, Venetian
or Neapolitan contemporary.

In this way it seemed to me possible to satisfy my own conceptions
without doing violence to popular belief.

But since in spite of this care with which I sought to steer a
justifiable middle course between conflicting schools, I have not
escaped the charge of having whitewashed Cesare Borgia, it seems to me
that I may have done here better historical service than I set out to
do. For the explanation should lie in the fact that it is impossible to
combine in one person the gifted prince of Soderini and Macchiavelli
with the brutal scoundrel of Guicciardini and his literary successors.




                               CHARACTERS


                    (In the order of their speaking)

    PANTHASILEA DEGLI SPERANZONI
    GIULIA
    COUNT GUIDO DEGLI SPERANZONI   Tyrant of Solignola.
    SANTAFIORA                     A Condottiero.
    D’ALDI                         Of the Council of Ten of Solignola.
    GIANLUCA DELLA PIEVE           A Patrician of Assisi.

    DEL CAMPO                    } Of the Council of Solignola.
    PAVIANO

    SENESCHAL OF SOLIGNOLA
    PRINCE ERCOLE SINIBALDI        Envoy of Venice.
    A SWISS DOORKEEPER

    RAMIREZ
    MICHELETTO DA CORELLA        } Condottieri in the
    SCIPIONE                       service of Valentinois.

    NICCOLÒ MACCHIAVELLI           Secretary of State of Florence.
    CAPELLO                        Orator of Venice.
    A CHAMBERLAIN
    AGABITO GHERARDI               Secretary to Valentinois.
    CESARE BORGIA, DUKE OF
       VALENTINOIS AND ROMAGNA
    GINO                           A peasant.
    GIOVANNI                       Seneschal of Pieve Palace.
    GASPARO                        Orator of Mantua.
    MARIANO                        Orator of Ferrara.

    TWO COUNCILLORS OF SOLIGNOLA
    THREE LADIES OF ASSISI
    FOUR GENTLEMEN OF ASSISI
    FOUR SWISS GUARDS            } (Silent parts.)
    FOUR MEN-AT-ARMS
    TWO MONKS
    TWO LACKEYS
    TWO PAGES
    CARDINAL REMOLINO

    FERRANTE                       A Condottiero




                                 SCENES


ACT I. A Hall in the Castle of Solignola.

ACT II. The Antechamber in the Communal Palace at Assisi.

ACT III. A room in the Pieve Palace, Assisi.

ACT IV. As Act I.

    The Action takes place in the Spring of 1503. Between Acts I.
    and II. and Acts II. and III. a week elapses in each case;
    between Acts III. and IV. a day elapses.




                    CAST OF THE ORIGINAL PRODUCTION


    At the Theatre Royal, Birmingham, on the 9th March, and
    subsequently at the New Theatre, London, on the 18th March,
    1925.

         PANTHASILEA DEGLI SPERANZONI Miss Isobel Elsom.
         GIULIA                       Miss Nona Wynne.
         GUIDO DEGLI SPERANZONI       Mr. Wilfrid Walter.
         SANTAFIORA                   Mr. Douglas Ross.
         D’ALDI                       Mr. A. W. Tyrer.
         GIANLUCA DELLA PIEVE         Mr. Frank Vosper.
         DEL CAMPO                    Mr. Ernest Bodkin.
         PAVIANO                      Mr. Anderson Melrose.
         SENESCHAL OF SOLIGNOLA       Mr. D. Morrison.
         PRINCE ERCOLE SINIBALDI      Mr. Edmund Willard.
         MARIANO                      Mr. Walter Lake.
         CAPELLO                      Mr. Ernest Bodkin.
         SWISS SOLDIER                Mr. Donald Wolfit.
         NICCOLÒ MACCHIAVELLI         Mr. Leonard Shepherd.
         RAMIREZ                      Mr. Henry C. Hewitt.
         SCIPIONE                     Mr. Owen Cassidy.
         CHAMBERLAIN                  Mr. Walter Menpes.
         MICHELETTO DA CORELLA        Mr. R. Campbell Fletcher.
         CARDINAL REMOLINO            Mr. William Magill Martyn.
         AGABITO GHERARDI             Mr. Cecil Cameron.
         CESARE BORGIA                Mr. Matheson Lang.
         GIOVANNI                     Mr. Alec S. Clunes.




  ACT I




                                 ACT I


    _A Hall in the Castle of Solignola._

    _A spacious chamber on the first floor of the castle, severe in
    tone. Its grey stone walls show bare here and there between the
    strips of sombre-hued tapestries with which in the main they are
    hung; the ceiling is crudely frescoed. The main
    entrance—double-doors of square design, massive of timber,
    fortified by metal—are in the back flat, a little to the right
    of the middle. They open directly on to an external stair-head
    with a shallow parapet, whence steps descend, left, to the
    ground level below. The farther buildings of the wide court-yard
    are seen on the backcloth when this door is open._

    _The loggia is in the same flat, to the left. Its ceiling is
    carried on seven slender pillars (two at each side and three at
    the back) delicately carved and painted. These rise from a
    parapet rather higher than that of the stair-head, and the
    outlook thence is upon distant hills. Against this parapet a
    bench is set, rather like a window-seat, equipped with loose
    leather cushions._

    _There is a door low down in the right flat, and opposite to
    this a great cowled fireplace, decorated by armorial bearings in
    relief and coloured. The floor is of stone, grey and unrelieved.
    It may be strewn with rushes. Below this a heavy table is set
    squarely across, rather low and a little to the left of
    midstage. Five stools are placed about this table, three above,
    two below, and an armchair at each end. A carved and gilded
    throne-like chair stands R.C. against the wall at back, between
    doors and loggia, on a small dais. There is an armchair with
    cushioned seat against flat R._

    AT RISE OF CURTAIN _the armchair by the hearth is occupied by_
    COUNT GUIDO DEGLI SPERANZONI, _a vigorous man of fifty, with
    grizzled hair and a shaven, aquiline face, strong and crafty. He
    is well dressed, without fripperies, his exterior, like his
    bearing, marking him for a soldier rather than a man of courts.
    He sits brooding, chin in palm._

    _On the bench in the loggia sits_ =Panthasilea degli
    Speranzoni=, _a beautiful woman of twenty-three, regal of
    mien and carriage, dressed simply, yet with a certain richness
    betokening her rank; thus there are jewels in her girdle and in
    the gold network that confines her hair._

    _On a cushion at her feet sits_ GIULIA. _Younger than
    Panthasilea, she is by contrast almost child-like. She fills the
    office of companion and lady-in-waiting to Count Guido’s
    daughter._

    _It is the afternoon of a day in early Spring._

    PANTHASILEA _is singing, accompanying herself upon an archlute,
    and the first stanza of her song may be heard before the curtain
    actually rises_:

        Life is an anguish grown, a source of tears,
        For Love lies stark and cold on his last bed,
        A round of broken days and empty years
        When hope is dead.

        There is no joy in song, nor solace yet
        In all the tears demanding to be shed;
        Vainly we sigh our longings, vainly fret
        When hope is dead.

        Thus in Life’s fetters still a pris’ner held,
        Eating of hopelessness the bitter bread,
        Waiting . . .

      [_Her utterance becomes choked by tears. It breaks off on a sob._
   GUIDO _starts up in solicitude, whilst_ GIULIA, _rising to her knees,
   puts her arm about_ PANTHASILEA.

  GIULIA: Monna Lea! Monna Lea!

  GUIDO: Panthasilea, my child! (_He goes quickly up to her._) Why will
you make songs to afflict you?

      [PANTHASILEA _rises, and relinquishes the lute to_ GIULIA. _She
   controls herself._

  PANTHASILEA: Have patience, Father. Forgive me. You know my
loss. . . .

  GUIDO (_in fond impatience_): But these melancholy songs. . . .

  PANTHASILEA: The tongue will touch where the tooth aches.

      [_He sets an arm affectionately about her shoulders, and together
   they come slowly down._

  PANTHASILEA (_to_ GIULIA): Go, leave me, child. I will call you if I
need you. (_To_ GUIDO.) It is solacing to weep sometimes. Mostly I think
my heart is dead—dead, and buried in Pesaro with my poor murdered
Pietro.

      [GIULIA _goes half-reluctantly out by the door down R_.

  GUIDO: Surely there’s more solace in the thought that by now he will
be avenged—avenged with all those other victims of evil Borgia
ambition.

  PANTHASILEA: If I could be sure that Cesare Borgia has paid. . . .

  GUIDO: Be sure he has—paid terribly. The snare at Sinigaglia was
shrewdly laid. By now he’s fast in the jaws of it.

      [_She sinks into the chair lately occupied by Guido. He remains
   standing over her._

  PANTHASILEA: Snares have been set for him before, and always has it
been the fowler who’s been taken.

  GUIDO: Not this time! Not this time. Never were there such fowlers as
these—his own captains, leagued with the Orsini, against him. Three
days ago he went to Sinigaglia . . . to make his peace with them; and
the place an armed camp. O, they’ll have made his peace for him.

  PANTHASILEA (_fervently_): I hope they have.

  GUIDO: Be sure of it. Cesare Borgia, Duke of Valentinois will have
been in hell these three days.

  PANTHASILEA: And yet . . . (_With sudden anxiety._) Why is this news
delayed? If it was done three days ago . . . ?

  GUIDO (_interrupting_): From Sinigaglia here it is at least a three
days’ ride.

  PANTHASILEA: Not with such news as that. It would travel faster than
the wind over the face of Italy.

  GUIDO: It would travel no faster than the news of failure. And we
haven’t that—nor shall we have it. Failure is impossible.

  PANTHASILEA: You don’t think it may be known by now in Assisi . . . ?

  GUIDO: The moment it is known there, we shall have Gianluca riding out
here to Solignola. The desire to be near you will make him an eager
messenger.

  PANTHASILEA (_nodding and speaking wistfully_): Poor Gianluca! (_She
sighs._)

  GUIDO (_smiling_): So that you begin by pitying him, in time you may
come to . . .

  PANTHASILEA: Don’t, father! Ah, don’t!

      [_He looks at her, and then shrugs understandingly._

  GUIDO: My dear, I should like to know that you have beside you a man
whom I can trust, against the time when I am gone. And since poor Pietro
Varano was killed at Pesaro . . .

  PANTHASILEA: That is why I cannot bear just now to speak . . . even to
think . . . of . . . of this . . .

      [_A mutter of voices outside and a clatter of steps on the stair
   arrest their attention._ PANTHASILEA _rises, her voice is strained_.

  PANTHASILEA: News! It will be news . . . at last!

      [_The doors open, revealing now the stairhead._ SANTAFIORA _and_
   ALDI _come quickly in and down. Both are men of middle age_:
   SANTAFIORA, _the condottiero, burly and vigorous, his body cased in
   leather, a gorget of mail at his throat, a heavy dagger at his
   girdle, his close-cropped head covered by a cap of purple velvet (as
   a protection from his helmet now discarded) which fits his skull like
   his own hair_; ALDI _is frail, delicate and bearded, urbane of
   manner, soberly patrician in his dress_.

      [SANTAFIORA _exclaims breathlessly as he advances_.

  SANTAFIORA: My lord! My lord! Here is Messer d’Aldi with great
tidings.

      [GUIDO _and his daughter turn eagerly to face the newcomer_.

  GUIDO: Ah! Be doubly welcome, then, my friend. (_He holds out his
hand._)

      [ALDI _takes it, then bows low, hat in hand, to_ PANTHASILEA, _who
   stands tensely waiting_.

  ALDI: It is no more than a rumour as yet—a rumour current in the
townships of the valley—that Valentino was slain on Monday in
Sinigaglia.

  GUIDO (_gloomily_): A rumour?

  SANTAFIORA: Ay—but most oddly circumstantial. Tell him, sir.

  ALDI: Why, thus the story runs: On Monday morning Valentino, attended
by only a few lances, rode into Sinigaglia to make his peace with the
Orsini and with those of his own captains who had been in rebellion
against him.

  GUIDO: Ay, ay—that is what was concerted.

  ALDI: These captains had sent him offers of renewed allegiance and
invited him to meet them there. And, he, believing them sincere,
delivered himself into their hands.

  GUIDO: Yes, yes. And how did it befall?

  ALDI: Of that there are no details yet, beyond the fact that the Duke
of Gravina stabbed him with his own hand.

  GUIDO (_his voice vibrant, to_ PANTHASILEA): You hear, Lea?

  ALDI: His head, they say, is on a pike over the gate on the Misa.

  PANTHASILEA: Just God, I thank thee!

  GUIDO (_drawing a deep breath_): At last! At last we are rid of this
nightmare! At last we can breathe again! And in the Romagna, what is
happening?

  ALDI: There are rumours of fighting at Cesena, which is very loyal to
him. But I have heard of little else—save that Sforza is back in
Pesaro, Caterina’s son marching on Imola, and Malatesta hastening to
repossess himself of Rimini.

  GUIDO (_laughing_): So that in a little while all will be as it was
before this papal scourge was loosed on Italy.

  PANTHASILEA (_sadly_): Nay, not quite all. Pietro Varano will not
return to life.

  SANTAFIORA: But his brother lives, and will be back in Camerino soon.

  PANTHASILEA: What is that to me?

  GUIDO: Something, surely, Lea, when you consider how it comes about.
Cesare Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, is dead, and your Pietro avenged
with all the others.

  SANTAFIORA: Think of it—by the Host! Valentino at whose name all
Italy shuddered—just so much carrion. Ha!

  GUIDO: Santafiora, the event demands celebration. There shall be
bonfires here on the heights of Solignola, and meat and wine for all.
Summon the patricians of the town and . . .

      [_A growing mutter of voices off._ GUIDO _interrupts himself_.

  GUIDO: What’s that?

  A VOICE OF SENESCHAL (_off——above the general mutter_): Stay while I
go to announce you to my lord. . . .

  ANOTHER VOICE (GIANLUCA’S): No need. I know my way. . . .

      [_Steps clatter up the stairs._

  PANTHASILEA: It is Gianluca.

  GUIDO (_gaily_): Aha! Gianluca at last, from Assisi, with the news.

  SANTAFIORA (_laughing_): By Heaven, he’s behind the fair this time.

      [_The doors are flung violently open, and_ =Gianluca della
   Pieve= _comes in quickly_.

      [_He is a young man of not more than twenty-five, slightly built
   and of an almost effeminate beauty; his personality suggests
   amiability and sensibility but no strength. He is richly dressed for
   riding, cloaked and covered with a broad round hat, which, as he
   enters, he removes from his head, leaving it slung behind him by
   cords from his shoulders. He is splashed and dusty from head to foot;
   his face is white, his manner distraught._

      [_He flings forward wildly, striking dismay into those present._

  GIANLUCA: My lord! My lord! Have you heard the news?

_Guido_: That Valentino is dead?

  GIANLUCA (_in bitter derision_): Dead? He was never more alive—never
more powerful—never more firmly in the ducal saddle!

      [_The consternation is general._

      [GUIDO _reels, clutches the back of a chair for support, gasping_.

  ALDI: Surely, Ser Gianluca, there is some mistake. . . .

  GIANLUCA (_shouting, scornfully_): Mistake?

  ALDI: In the townships of the valley the rumour runs that . . .

  GIANLUCA: Rumour! What have I to do with rumour? I bring you
fact—hideous fact.

  SANTAFIORA: But what the devil has happened then? Didn’t he _go_ to
Sinigaglia?

  GIANLUCA (_grimly_): Ay—he went.

  GUIDO: He went! But then, the trap?

  GIANLUCA: The trap, sir, caught them that set it—caught them fast by
their silly necks. On my soul, I don’t know whether to weep or laugh.
They took this basilisk for a pigeon. They beguiled him by the sweetness
of their whistling, and he came—oh, most obligingly! a very dove of
peace.

  GUIDO: But if he came . . .

  GIANLUCA: He brought more troops at his heels than they had expected.
That gave them pause. They must wait and make their opportunity.
Meanwhile to keep suspicion slumbering there was most courteous
interchange of loving phrases. And when they would have taken leave of
him at the Palace, he insisted that they must in with him, and drink a
cup to pledge their happy reconciliation. They went, poor fools. And no
sooner were they in, than his gentlemen fell upon them and made them
fast.

      [GUIDO _sinks limply into his chair_.

  SANTAFIORA: All of them?

  GIANLUCA: All but Baglioni, who was fortunately ill, and Petrucci, who
was wise. Petrucci stayed away. He’s at Siena safe for the present among
his own people.

  GUIDO: But these others—these who were taken.

  GIANLUCA: There were five of them: The Duke of Gravina, Paolo Orsini
and his son Fabio, Oliverotto of Fermo, and Vitelli, Tyrant of Castello.
Vitelli and Oliverotto are already with their Maker.

  SANTAFIORA (_in horror_): Dead!

  GIANLUCA: That very night they were placed back to back, and strangled
in the same noose.

  GUIDO (_covering his face with his hands_): O God!

  SANTAFIORA: But not even his audacity dared so much with the Orsini.

  GIANLUCA: Dared? Pshaw! He dares all things. He merely waits for ends
of his own. It is said his messengers are speeding to Rome to arrest
Cardinal Orsini and the Archbishop for their complicity.

      [_There is a moment’s pause of blank astonishment._

  GUIDO: But how did he come to discover the plot?

  GIANLUCA: Ah! How? He knows all—all, that terrible man. Sometimes I
think he is antichrist or else the fiend himself. He goes into
Sinigaglia to meet his doom. He comes out of it more powerful than he
went; and now he’s advancing by forced marches on Assisi.

      [_There is a sudden forward movement on the part of_ ALDI _and_
   SANTAFIORA. GUIDO _bounds from his chair_.

  SANTAFIORA: Marching on Assisi, do you say?

  GIANLUCA: He is expected to arrive to-morrow.

_Guido_: To-morrow?

  SANTAFIORA: Assisi will resist?

  GIANLUCA: Assisi will surrender. I attended the Council of the
Ancients to-day, summoned to decide this question. Prince Sinibaldi of
Venice was there and pleaded eloquently for resistance.

  PANTHASILEA: That was no coward’s pleading, at least.

  GIANLUCA: No. It was the pleading of crafty Venice that would use
every state in Italy as the monkey used the cat. But Assisi has not the
means to resist even if she had the will.

  GUIDO: Has she the will at least?

  GIANLUCA: Oh, yes. But . . . (_He shrugs helplessly._)

  GUIDO (_gloomily_): And after Assisi it will be the turn of Solignola.

  PANTHASILEA: Solignola does not yield.

  GUIDO: By Heaven’s Light, no! Here we have both the will and the means
to resist. We must take order at once. There is not an hour to lose.
Come, Santafiora. See the Council summoned. You, Messer Francesco, seek
Campo and Barbero. Then bring them here to deliberate with us.

  ALDI (_with a heavy sigh, and a bow_): I go at once, my lord. (_Bowing
to_ PANTHASILEA.) Madonna.

      [_He goes up._

  GUIDO (_in the act of following_): Await me here, Gianluca; unless
you’re in haste to return.

  GIANLUCA: Return? I care little if I never see Assisi again.

      [GUIDO _nods, and goes up. He pauses, and looks at_ PANTHASILEA,
   _sitting listless and dejected in the chair at back._

  GUIDO (_tenderly_): Courage, Lea.

  PANTHASILEA: I need courage, Heaven knows.

      [_He stoops to kiss her. Then he goes out, followed by_
   SANTAFIORA. _They close the doors._

      [_There is a loud hum of voices from without, greeting_ GUIDO _as
   he descends the stairs. This gradually recedes and presently dies
   down._

      [PANTHASILEA _rises and moves up to the loggia, whence she looks
   out_. GIANLUCA _hovers near, obviously uncomfortable, hesitating to
   intrude upon her mood. She takes no heed of him._

      [A SERVANT _enters R. with a salver bearing a gold beaker and some
   Venetian glasses. He sets it down upon the table, and withdraws._

  GIANLUCA: You have no word for me to-day, madonna. Alas! A messenger
is welcomed according to the news he brings, and Heaven knows I am a
messenger of evil.

  PANTHASILEA: Heaven knows you are.

  GIANLUCA: You say it almost as if I were the author of my news.

      [_Rousing herself, she realizes her ungraciousness and turns._

  PANTHASILEA: No, no, Gianluca. Ah, forgive me. You know . . . you know
how I have hoped and prayed that the Sinigaglia enterprise might rid
Italy of this evil monster. And now . . . This!

  GIANLUCA: You had not prayed for it more fervently than I.

  PANTHASILEA: Had I not? I wonder! Let me pour for you, Gianluca. You
will need a cup after your ride. (_She pours._) It will revive you.

  GIANLUCA (_softly_): It needs no wine to revive me when I ride to
Solignola, not though I rode all the way from Rome. To have the
happiness to see you, Lea . . .

  PANTHASILEA (_almost sternly_): Not now, Gianluca! Not now!

  GIANLUCA: Why not now?

  PANTHASILEA: Do you ask “why”?

  GIANLUCA: Lea, you have bewitched me, I think. Though the earth quake
under the tramp of Valentino’s host, though all Italy come clattering
down in ruin about me, my mind cannot be shaken from its thought of
you—always you.

  PANTHASILEA (_more gently_): Don’t, Gianluca. Ah, don’t! Be content to
be my friend.

  GIANLUCA: Surely your friend, since the greater must include the less.

  PANTHASILEA: My friend, and nothing more just now. How can you woo me
in the very midst of war, with death all about us as it is?

  GIANLUCA: Love is greater than death, Lea. Love is Lord of Life.

  PANTHASILEA: You know that I was to have married Pietro Varano.

  GIANLUCA (_sadly_): Ay.

  PANTHASILEA: And that he is dead—murdered?

  GIANLUCA: Heaven rest his soul!

  PANTHASILEA: Then . . . surely you understand. Surely you see the
wound I bear, unhealed and raw.

  GIANLUCA: It but serves to move my love more violently. I ask nothing
yet. I am patient. I can wait. But though you should never come to love
me, Lea, you cannot deny my loving you, nor while I’ve life and breath
can I cease from proclaiming it to you.

  PANTHASILEA (_slowly considering him, she smiles wistfully_): Dear
Gianluca, how you deceive yourself!

  GIANLUCA: Deceive myself?

      [VOICES _off, and steps upon the stair_.

  PANTHASILEA: The members of the Council. You have not drunk your wine.

      [_He looks at her, and drinks. The doors are thrown open, and_
   ALDI _comes in, followed by_ DEL CAMPO, PAVIANO _and_ ANOTHER
   GENTLEMAN OF THE COUNCIL.

  CAMPO (_coming forward_): This is terrible news, madonna!

  PAVIANO: I suppose there is no possibility of error, Ser Gianluca?

  GIANLUCA: None. The Communal Palace in Assisi is being made ready to
receive the Duke. It is expected that he will make Assisi his
headquarters for the present.

  CAMPO: Conducting thence his operations against Solignola?

  GIANLUCA: Should it refuse to yield.

  PANTHASILEA: Be sure that Solignola will refuse to yield.

  CAMPO (_tartly_): That is what the Council is to decide, madonna.

  PANTHASILEA: Decide? Can there be a doubt, Messer del Campo.

  CAMPO: If we must go the way of Pesaro, Imola, Rimini, Faenza and all
the others, at least let us do so in the manner that will involve less
cost to our people.

  PANTHASILEA: Cost, sir? Are we traders, to count the cost? Here,
honour is at stake, and honour is not a marketable thing.

      [GUIDO _enters at back with_ SANTAFIORA _and_ =Another
   Councillor=.

  CAMPO: Assisi, madonna, has taken another view.

  PANTHASILEA (_violently_): Solignola is not Assisi, Messer del Campo.
Assisi lies open to attack, and is without natural defences. Solignola
is the most inaccessible stronghold in Middle Italy.

  GUIDO: Perched here on these craggy heights, it can defy greater
legions than those of Valentino. But to table, sirs. We are all
assembled.

      [SANTAFIORA _bars the door. Then he comes down to the table about
   which the others are already grouped, some standing, some sitting_.

  GIANLUCA: My lord, I will withdraw until your deliberations are . . .

  GUIDO: No, no. (_Standing at the table-head R. he addresses the
Council._) Messer Gianluca is fully informed of what is happening, and
his presence may be useful.

  ALDI: Also he makes common cause with us.

      [_General murmur of assent._

  GUIDO (_to_ GIANLUCA): So that we shall be grateful if you will remain
awhile.

  GIANLUCA (_bowing_): To command!

      [_He goes up and takes his stand by_ PANTHASILEA, _who is leaning
   against the high chair at back. On his approach she sits. The others
   also now seat themselves._ ALDI _and_ CAMPO _on the upper side of the
   table, so as to face the audience with one of the other councillors_:
   PAVIANO _and the remaining councillor on the lower side, having their
   backs to the audience_. SANTAFIORA _takes the table’s foot, on L.
   facing_ GUIDO.

      [GUIDO _sits last, speaking as he does so_.

  GUIDO: Our deliberations need not keep us long. You are already aware
of the terrible menace that hangs over us.

      [_He is interrupted by a knock upon the doors._ SANTAFIORA
   _rises_.

  GUIDO: What now? See who comes.

      [GIANLUCA _lifts the bar and opens the doors. An elderly_
   SENESCHAL _appears, bearing a letter_. GUIDO _bawls impatiently_:

  GUIDO: What is it?

  SENESCHAL (_hastening down to him_): My lord! (_He proffers the
letter._) This is brought by a friar. He pleads the utmost urgency, else
I should not have dared disturb you.

      [GUIDO _takes the letter, breaks the seal, unfolds and hurriedly
   reads. An exclamation escapes him._

  GUIDO: Prin . . . (_He seems about to make an announcement to the
Council, then checks, and turns to the_ SENESCHAL.) Bring him up.

      [_The_ SENESCHAL _bows and goes out_. GUIDO _watches him off, then
   speaks_.

  GUIDO: Sirs, in this note Prince Sinibaldi announces himself. He has
ridden over secretly from Assisi. He is more prudent than you, Gianluca,
who have had the hardihood to come here openly.

  CAMPO: Sinibaldi, do you say? Who is he?

  PAVIA: Ay, who?

  GUIDO: Tell them, Gianluca. You have his acquaintance.

  GIANLUCA: Prince Sinibaldi is the envoy-extraordinary sent by Venice
to felicitate the Duke of Valentinois upon his conquest of Sinigaglia.
He arrived in Assisi last night.

  ALDI (_incredulously_): Venice sends felicitations to Valentino?
Venice?

  CAMPO: You’re surely wrong, Messer Gianluca. Venice notoriously is the
power in all Italy most hostile to the House of Borgia.

  GIANLUCA (_sneering_): That may explain Prince Sinibaldi’s presence
here.

  CAMPO: I don’t understand.

  GUIDO (_impatiently_): Isn’t it plain? Though Venice fears his power
and desires his ruin, yet she is not at war with him; therefore she must
observe the amenities of peace.

  SANTAFIORA: That’s what they call politics, I suppose. Thank God, I’m
a soldier.

      [_The_ SENESCHAL _re-enters, accompanied by a tall man, in the
   grey habit of a Capuchin friar, his face invisible in the cowl_.

  SENESCHAL: My lord, here is the messenger.

      [GUIDO _rises. The newcomer bows._

  GUIDO (_to_ SENESCHAL): You may go.

      [_The_ SENESCHAL _goes out again, and closes the doors, which_
   GIANLUCA _presently bars_.

      [_Then at last_ GUIDO _returns the bow_.

  GUIDO: Excellency, be welcome. We are private here. These are the
members of my council. Messer Gianluca, you already know.

      [_The_ FRIAR _looks round, questioningly_.

  GUIDO: That is my daughter, excellency—my heiress here in Solignola.

      [SINIBALDI _draws back the cowl, and loosens his girdle, revealing
   his rich black dress_.

  SINIBALDI: Sirs, your servant; madonna, to command.

      [_He tosses the habit aside. He is booted, and armed with a
   dagger. He bows to the company._

  SINIBALDI: You all realize, I am sure, that in certain circumstances,
if my presence here to-day were to become known, the adventure might
cost me my life—which is a small thing—and the Most Serene Republic
might be compromised—which would be a grave one. Hence my precautions.

      [_He comes down._

  GUIDO: Be sure that what passes here does not go beyond those doors. A
chair, excellency.

      [GUIDO _advances the chair by the hearth, then swings his own seat
   half round, so that he shall not have his back to the prince_.
   SINIBALDI _acknowledges the chair, and standing beside it looks up
   at_ GIANLUCA _with a half-smile_.

  SINIBALDI: Although I have made haste, it seems that another is here
before me with the news of what is happening in Assisi.

  GUIDO: Ay, bad news travels quickly. That is why you find the Council
here assembled.

  SINIBALDI (_anxiously_): To determine whether you will follow the
example of weak-kneed Assisi?

Guido: No. To determine the precise measures for our resistance of this
bastard duke.

  CAMPO (_agitated_): What? Is resistance, then, already determined?

      [_There is an ominous pause, all eyes upon_ DEL CAMPO, GUIDO
   _scowling_, SINIBALDI _cunningly alert_.

  GUIDO: Is there anyone here so base as to urge surrender?

  CAMPO: But we have not yet been summoned to surrender?

  SINIBALDI: That summons, sir, believe me, will not be long delayed.

  CAMPO: Were it not best to wait. . . ?

  SANTAFIORA: To be sure we’ll wait. But while we wait, we’ll arm.

  CAMPO: My lord, in making up your mind to resistance, have you
considered what will happen to the townships of the valley?

  GUIDO: I have not.

  PAVIANO: It should be weighed, I think.

  CAMPO: Of course it should. It is our duty to weigh it. We are here in
Solignola itself, which is almost impregnable. But those in the valley
are defenceless, and Valentino may terribly avenge upon them the
stubbornness of the capital.

  SINIBALDI: Surely, sir, if you think that, you cannot have observed
Valentino’s methods. They are not quite so crude. It is not his way to
avenge upon dependencies the resistance of a capital. He is too
guileful, believe me. Whom he subjects, he conciliates.

  GIANLUCA: Always is it so. Consider the case of Faenza. What harm was
suffered by the folk in her territories? None. The townships
surrendered, and knew no violence, though Faenza herself resisted
stubbornly.

  CAMPO: But to little purpose.

  GUIDO: That is beside the point. And Faenza had not the natural
strength of Solignola.

  CAMPO: Yet in the end surrender we must. We cannot resist an army of
ten thousand men for ever.

  SANTAFIORA (_sharply_): They cannot besiege us for ever.

  ALDI (_to_ SINIBALDI): If we hold out, excellency, may we look to
Venice for assistance ultimately?

  SINIBALDI: I would that I could promise you that. But . . . (_He
sighs._)

  GUIDO: Yet it is in the interest of Venice that we resist.

  SINIBALDI: That is why I am here to-night. Ostensibly I am the
Republic’s ambassador to the Duke. In reality I am her ambassador to
those in Romagna valiant enough to stand against this Catalan
adventurer. The interests of the Serene Republic are the interests of
every fief in Middle Italy.

  PANTHASILEA: Then why does not the Serene Republic come in arms to our
assistance?

      [_Cries of assent._

  SINIBALDI: She would do so gladly, madonna. Unfortunately her hands
are tied by her treaty with Valentino.

  GUIDO: I never knew a treaty bind a State one moment longer than
convenient.

  SINIBALDI: The republic would have to reckon with France—for the King
of France is behind Valentino. You perceive the danger, sirs. In the end
. . . Venice may be compelled to incur it.

  GIANLUCA: Does not the Serene Republic consider that the end has been
reached?

      [GIANLUCA’S _voice is cold, almost hostile. Hostility towards_
   SINIBALDI _marks his bearing throughout, for he sees in the Venetian
   a crafty, cold-blooded schemer, who is slyly urging others at their
   own expense to pull (as he presently says) the chestnuts from the
   fire for Venice._

  SINIBALDI: No.

  ALDI: What remains?

  PAVIANO: Ay, what?

  SINIBALDI: You know—you all know by now—what had been planned in
Sinigaglia. It failed. But that which failed in Sinigaglia might succeed
in Assisi.

      [_There is a general movement of awed surprise._

  SINIBALDI: Need more be said?

  SANTAFIORA: Ay—the how and the when, the way and the means.

  SINIBALDI: That, of course. But first . . . (_To_ GUIDO.) Have you a
mind to it? To rid Italy of this scourge at a single stroke? To save
your dominions from being ravished by this insatiable devil?

  GUIDO (_assentingly_): By Heaven’s light!

  SINIBALDI: Then to it. Destroy Cesare Borgia, and you destroy the head
and brain of the Pontifical forces. You make an end of this conquest of
the Romagna which will presently spread to a conquest of Middle Italy;
for if he lives he will not rest until he is King of Tuscany.

  CAMPO (_rising in horror_): It is murder that you are proposing!
Murder!

  SINIBALDI (_rising also_): What, then? Shall a mere word make a
barrier for grown men?

      [_There is a moment’s silence._

  PANTHASILEA: It would not for one woman that I know of.

      [_They turn to stare at her. She rises slowly._

  PANTHASILEA: What his excellency says is true. While that monster
lives there is no peace for Middle Italy. And there is one thing, and
one thing only that can save Solignola—the death of Valentino.

      [_Some acclamations._

  SINIBALDI: And there you have the simple truth. While he is resting at
Assisi should be your opportunity, if you have the will and the courage
to seize it.

  GIANLUCA (_ironical_): You mean the will and the courage that Venice
lacks?

  SINIBALDI (_offended_): Sir!

                         PANTHASILEA: } Gianluca!
                         GUIDO:

      [GIANLUCA _comes forward impetuously_.

  GIANLUCA: You have said, sir, that the interests of Venice and the
interests of the Romagna fiefs are one in this. Why then, sir, do you
not strike on behalf of Venice, and so, have done?

      [_Murmurs of assent._

  SINIBALDI (_stiffly_): Because, sir, I am not so authorized by the
Most Serene.

  GIANLUCA: Yet you are authorized, it seems, to come here urging us to
do it. What is the difference?

  SINIBALDI: It is considerable. First, the discovery of Venice’s hand
in this would embroil her with the King of France, in which case hope
would be at an end for all. Second, your need is urgent, far more urgent
than the need of Venice. Venice is not directly menaced. Venice can
wait. Can you?

         GUIDO:                              No, no . . .
         ALDI:       } (_speaking together_) By Heaven we can’t.
         SANTAFIORA:                         He’s at our gates.

  GUIDO: Your excellency is in the right. Confess it, Gianluca.

  GIANLUCA: Did your excellency urge this course upon the Assisians?

  SINIBALDI: You know that I did not.

  GIANLUCA: Why not?

  SINIBALDI: Because when I reached Assisi I found her ready as a harlot
for surrender. There was no will to resist. And so . . . (_he shrugs_)
. . . I came to you.

  GUIDO: And here you are welcome, sir—you and your proposal.

  CAMPO: What? Do you say, my lord, that this plan of murder has your
countenance?

  GUIDO: What else remains? Pshaw! We have but to discover how best the
thing can be accomplished.

      [CAMPO _rises with great dignity_.

  CAMPO: In that case, my lord, suffer me to withdraw before you go
further in a matter in which I can have no part.

      [_He bows to the company, and in the general silence, stared at by
   all, he goes up and out. As the door closes,_ SINIBALDI _starts up in
   agitation._

  SINIBALDI: Lord Count! That man must not leave the citadel.

  GUIDO (_frowning_): Eh?

  SINIBALDI: The life of every man present may hang upon it. If del
Campo should utter a word, a hint—the Duke may hear of it to-morrow.
Should my presence here become known, it will be enough.

  SANTAFIORA (_heaving himself up_): Body of Bacchus, it is so!
Valentino’s spies are everywhere. They may be in Solignola now.

  GUIDO (_taken aback_): What then?

  SANTAFIORA: There is no dungeon in Solignola too deep for Messer del
Campo until this thing is ended.

  SINIBALDI (_quietly sinister_): There is none deep enough.

      [_The whole council is awe-stricken._ GUIDO _hesitates a moment,
   struggling obviously with his reluctance. Then he speaks hoarsely to
   Santafiora._

  GUIDO: See it done.

  PANTHASILEA (_appalled_): No, no, Santafiora. Wait! Father, he has
been our friend, and you . . .

  GUIDO: Were he my own brother, I must think of Solignola first.

      [_He waves imperiously to_ SANTAFIORA, _who goes out at once._
   PANTHASILEA _sinks back into her chair, wide-eyed, distressed, but
   persuaded of the necessity_.

  GUIDO (_flinging himself down again in his chair_): And now, sirs, to
business.

  ALDI: A doubt occurs to me touching the wisdom of Prince Sinibaldi’s
proposal as it stands.

      [_Angry clamour._

  ALDI: Give me your patience, sirs. I do not wish to bear Messer del
Campo company in—his dungeon.

  GUIDO: Speak out, Messer Francesco. We all know your worth.

  ALDI: His excellency has told us what would be the ultimate
consequences of slaying Cesare Borgia. But we here in Solignola have
also to consider the immediate consequences; for these would touch
ourselves.

  SINIBALDI: Sacrifice for the State’s weal is the sacred duty of the
individual.

  GIANLUCA: It is easy for the Prince, sheltered in the inviolability of
an ambassador’s office, to utter these exalted sentiments.

      [_Some laughter._

  SINIBALDI: By Heavens, sir . . .

  ALDI: Myself, I deplore the sacrifice of the individual if it can be
avoided.

  GUIDO: But can it?

  ALDI: Consider now: His captains would never allow the death of
Valentino to go unavenged. And the measure of their probable revenge is
such as no man may calmly contemplate.

  GIANLUCA: Messer Francesco d’Aldi is right. Those devils would carry
fire and sword through every township and every hamlet of the State. No
man, woman or child would they spare in their devastating rage. Have you
thought of that, Prince Sinibaldi, that you come urging Count Guido to
pull this chestnut out of the fire for Venice?

  SINIBALDI: Heaven give me patience with you, sir! It is not for Venice
only. You forget that unless Count Guido takes action, and that quickly,
he is lost.

  GIANLUCA: But no less lost if he takes such action as you
advise—whether it succeed or fail.

  SINIBALDI: What right have you to assume that the hand to strike the
blow must of necessity be discovered?

  GIANLUCA: The right by which you assumed it, when you urged it as a
reason why Venice should not strike.

  SINIBALDI: Sir, almost you force me to believe that you seek
deliberately to provoke me.

  GUIDO: Nay, nay. My interest is his only spur.

  ALDI (_patiently_): If you would but hear me out, sirs, a deal of
unprofitable heat might be avoided. If I show you the weakness, I am
also prepared to show you the remedy.

      [_They turn to him eagerly, the dispute forgotten._

  ALDI: Your talk is all of killing Valentino. I have shown you the
danger of that. My proposal is that we take him alive.

  ALL: Alive!

  GUIDO: Why? What then?

  ALDI: Hold him as a hostage. Meanwhile, send envoys to the Pope. Offer
His Holiness his son’s life and liberty in exchange for our own—in
exchange for a Bull of perpetual enfranchisement from the States of the
Church.

  SINIBALDI: Most shrewd!

  ALDI: And to quicken the Holy Father’s penmanship, we add that if the
Bull is not in our hands within a given term we shall proceed to hang
the Duke.

  GUIDO: That’s it, Messer Francesco! You’ve shown us the way.

      [_General approval._

  ALDI: But there’s a difficulty.

      [_General pause._

It lies in the Duke’s capture.

  PAVIANO (_gloomily_): Ay! To kill him is a child’s task by comparison.

      [_The door opens._ SANTAFIORA _comes in. There is silence._ GUIDO
   _looks questioningly at the Condottiero_. SANTAFIORA _nods
   significantly. The others draw breath audibly._ SANTAFIORA _stolidly
   comes down and resumes his place at the table_.

  GUIDO: A shrewd suggestion, yours, Messer d’Aldi. Surely by guile it
should be possible to lure him into some trap.

  GIANLUCA: It would ask a guile not less than his own.

  GUIDO (_ruminating_): Trap, eh? Trap? A trap needs baiting. What bait
do you advise? (_He looks round, and is met by blankness._) Come now:
What is the bait to lure a man?

  ALDI: Ordinarily I know none better than a woman. But . . .

  SEVERAL: A woman! That’s it!

  ALDI (_to_ SINIBALDI): Do women tempt this duke?

  GUIDO: Need you ask? He’ll be his father’s son.

  SINIBALDI: Hardly as lusty in that respect. Still, he’s far from proof
against the lure of beauty.

  GUIDO: How should he be? He’s a man and young. It should be easy for a
woman so to enmesh him in her toils that he would lie helpless.

  SINIBALDI: Of course it should. You have solved it, Lord Count.

  GUIDO: In theory, yes. But in practice—— Where shall you find this
woman?

      [_A pause._

  SINIBALDI: Are lovely women so scarce in Romagna?

  GUIDO: Women, no. But for this—no drab of the town will serve your
turn. She must have beauty to attract, wit to enslave, accomplishments
to deceive, and courage to perform her part. Again I ask you, sirs:
Where shall you find that woman?

      [_Again there is a pause. Then in the background_ PANTHASILEA
   _slowly rises. Her voice beats suddenly and sharply upon the
   silence._

  PANTHASILEA: Here.

      [_All turn._ GIANLUCA _recoils in horror_. GUIDO _starts up from
   his seat, aghast_. SINIBALDI’S _eyes gleam with satisfaction_.

  GUIDO (_in dismay_): You, Lea! Are you mad?

  GIANLUCA: My God! Never! Never!

      [PANTHASILEA _comes slowly down to the table_.

  PANTHASILEA: Is it not fitting that Solignola’s future ruler should be
Solignola’s saviour in her hour of need? There is no other who has my
claim to this.

  GUIDO: But it is monstrous! Unthinkable! What could you do?

  PANTHASILEA: What no man of you all could do, and what no subject
woman should or could be asked to do.

  GIANLUCA: The very thought of it is horrible. Lea! Think what it
means!

  PANTHASILEA (_calmly_): I know. Sirs, if the saving of Solignola were
not in itself enough, there is more than that between this infamous duke
and me. Pietro Varano and I were to have been wed this spring. And
Pietro Varano was strangled three months ago in Pesaro by Borgia
justice. Justice!

  GUIDO (_distraught_): But the danger of it!

  PANTHASILEA: Could you in honour ask another woman to face the dangers
to which you would not expose your daughter? Besides, where is this
danger? I am not known in Assisi. I have never been there. I am scarcely
known even here in Solignola, where I have been seldom seen since I came
back from Mantua.

      [_General murmurings of dissent._

  GUIDO: But, Lea . . .

  PANTHASILEA: Sirs, you must not oppose me. Let me go down into Assisi
with a dozen men of Santafiora’s condotta disguised as grooms and
lackeys. And while Solignola defies Valentino, and so detains him in
Assisi, I shall find a way to ensnare him, and carry him off to Siena,
where Petrucci will gladly act as your agent in this matter.

  ALDI: Petrucci!

  SINIBALDI: That’s a shrewd thought!

  PANTHASILEA: For my purpose, Gianluca, I shall require your house in
Assisi. You’ll lend it to me.

  GIANLUCA (_passionately_): Lend it to you! My house? To be a . . . a
. . . trap in which you—your matchless womanhood—shall be the lure?
I’ll be for ever damned before I am a party to such infamy.

  PANTHASILEA (_quietly_): Solignola is in danger. In the valley
thousands of women and little children are threatened with violence,
homelessness, hunger, death, and worse than death.

      [GUIDO _groans, taking his head in his hands_.

  PANTHASILEA: Shall one woman hesitate? Shall one woman fear a little
insult, when at the price of it, she can buy so much? An infamy, says
Messer Gianluca della Pieve. (_Passionately._) The infamy for me were to
sit safe and idle here.

      [GUIDO _looks up. His face is that of a stricken man. He braces
   himself. His voice is harsh._

  GUIDO: She is right. It is her sacred duty to the people she will one
day rule. Since there offers no way by which a man’s strength can
prevail against this evil tyrant—why, Gianluca, you will lend your
house; you, Santafiora, shall go with her and take the men she needs.

      [GIANLUCA _stands speechless, anguished_.

      [SANTAFIORA _grunts stolidly_.

      [_The_ OTHERS _look on silently, a little appalled_.

      [SINIBALDI _covertly smiles his cynical satisfaction, whilst_
   PANTHASILEA _confronts them, tense but calm_.

                           THE CURTAIN FALLS




  ACT II




                                 ACT II


                                SCENE I

    _An Antechamber in the Communal Palace at Assisi._

    _A spacious room panelled in dark oak with a tesselated floor on
    which lemon verbena and similar herbs are scattered. At back
    four steps lead up to a narrow gallery running thence right and
    left under an arched roof carried on slender corkscrew pillars
    of polished wood, very decoratively carved in the capitals,
    these pillars springing from panelling which is carried up here
    to a height of some five feet. Immediately facing the steps,
    beyond the gallery, another step leads up to a door which is
    closed, and guarded at curtain-rise by a Swiss man-at-arms. He
    wears striped hose, red and white, puffed out and slashed at the
    knee. Above this, cuissarts of steel, steel back-and-breast, and
    brassards. The back-and-breast is covered by a tabard on which
    the arms of the House of Borgia are displayed in full (this
    constituting the livery). His hat is slashed, red and white, and
    heavily plumed with red and white feathers. He is armed with a
    broad-headed pike. A strip of richly coloured Eastern carpet
    runs from this door across the gallery and down the four steps
    to the level of the antechamber._

    _There is a single door high up in the left flat. The main
    doors—double—are low down in right flat._

    _A long, high, mullioned window, set at a very wide angle
    across, joins the right extremity of the gallery with the right
    flat. This window is in three sections between two mullions; it
    is Gothic in design and in the arcs above there is stained glass
    bearing the arms of Assisi. The sunlight shining through these
    throws patches of vivid colour on the floor and walls. Below the
    arcs the windows are of clear glass; the middle one stands open.
    The only furniture in the room consists of a table, covered with
    an Eastern carpet and bearing writing materials. This is set
    rather low down, and to left of midstage. There are two chairs
    at this table. Lower down and further to the left, there is a
    wooden settle, equipped with a leather cushion, raked sharply
    across. Benches are set against the gallery right and left of
    steps, and another bench against the right flat, between double
    doors and window. There is also a cushioned window-seat. A
    portrait of St. Francis adorns the left flat._

    AT RISE OF CURTAIN _the antechamber is occupied by three main
    groups. One of these about the window, some seated and some
    standing, consists of two ladies and one gentleman, with whom
    is_ CARDINAL REMOLINO. _Another is that of Valentino’s three
    Captains_, =Diego Ramirez=, SCIPIONE _and_ FERRANTE,
    _which occupies the middle of the stage; their dress and arms
    advertise their calling_. (_N.B.: They are the only men present
    with weapons upon them._)

    _The third and last group is composed of the Ambassadors_,
    MACCHIAVELLI, CAPELLO, GASPARO, _and_ MARIANO, _and is ranged
    about the table_.

    MACCHIAVELLI _is a slight, lean man of thirty-three, with a
    pale, shaven crafty face, prominent cheek-bones, and wide-set,
    lively eyes. His black hair is fairly short, and squarely cut.
    He is dressed in rather rusty black with almost clerical
    simplicity, and his long black gown is of distinctly clerical
    fashion over a plain black doublet, buttoned to the throat. By
    contrast, his fellow-ambassadors look opulent in their furred
    velvet gowns, especially the smooth, corpulent and elderly_
    CAPELLO.

    _Two cowled monks sit telling their beads on the bench under the
    gallery right: the bench left is occupied by two stripling pages
    who are playing Mora. They are dressed in tight-fitting scarlet
    with the Borgia escutcheon wrought on the breasts of their
    doublets._

    _The chatter is general, and enlivened by trills of laughter
    from the ladies, for which the_ CARDINAL _appears chiefly
    responsible_.

    _The main doors are thrust open by a man-at-arms (A Swiss,
    counterpart of the one above) who, entering, stands at
    attention, with ordered pike, whilst Prince Sinibaldi swaggers
    in, resplendently dressed, and followed by a page, carrying his
    sword and purse._

      [_The_ SWISS _levels his pike to bar the boy’s passage_.

  SWISS: Hi! Young sir! That sword!

  SINIBALDI (_checking and turning_): What now?

      [_The general chatter dies down._

  SWISS: No one, not of the duke’s service, passes this door wearing a
sword.

  SINIBALDI: He’s not wearing a sword. He is carrying one—for me.

  SWISS: It’s all one, excellency. The sword does not enter.

  SINIBALDI: Are we at the Vatican? Is this a Papal antechamber? I am an
ambassador and I have my privileges.

      [CAPELLO _detaches from the group of ambassadors, and comes down
   to_ SINIBALDI.

  SWISS: No privilege to bear arms in here. My orders, excellency.

      [CAPELLO _presses_ SINIBALDI’S _arm, grimacing significantly_.
   SINIBALDI _shrugs his impatience_.

  SINIBALDI: Go wait in the outer room, boy.

      [_The_ PAGE _retires with the_ SWISS, _who closes the doors again,
   from the outside_.

      [SINIBALDI _turns to_ CAPELLO, _who is soothing his ruffled
   humour_.

  SINIBALDI: What new rule is this, Messer Capello?

  CAPELLO (_sneering_): The duke perceives the need to take precautions
against the sort of affection he inspires. It is very prudent of him. He
is not without bitter enemies here in Assisi.

  SINIBALDI: And elsewhere.

  CAPELLO (_hypocritically_): Alas!

      [_He glances significantly at_ SINIBALDI, _who pulls himself
   together, and looks round. He exchanges bows with the Cardinal, and
   then, on_ CAPELLO’S _arm, joins the ambassadorial group_.

  SINIBALDI: Ah, Messer Macchiavelli! Do you still linger here in
Assisi?

  MACCHIAVELLI (_slyly_): My presence calls for no explanation. My
motives are innocent. I am detained here by affairs.

  SINIBALDI (_a little dubious of_ MACCHIAVELLI’S _meaning_): So are we
all, sir. You are not singular in that. And what news from Florence? How
does the Signory view the affair at Sinigaglia?

  MACCHIAVELLI: How would your excellency have my masters view it? Why,
with hearty approval—(_sardonic_) like the Serene Republic.

  SINIBALDI: I am glad that our respective States take the same view.
Harmony, I always think, is the soul of statecraft. Don’t you?

  MACCHIAVELLI (_uncompromisingly_): No.

  SINIBALDI: No?

  MACCHIAVELLI: When there is harmony, there is no need for statecraft.

  CAPELLO: Oh, but to preserve it—to keep the peace?

  MACCHIAVELLI: Force is what keeps the peace. Statecraft disturbs it.

  SINIBALDI: Surely, Messer Macchiavelli, in an ambassador and the
ambassador of such a power as Florence, this is rank heresy?

  MACCHIAVELLI: Most wisdom, my lord, is heresy. But the strong hand,
well displayed, seldom needs exerting. Si vis pacem, para bellum. That
is a truth Duke Valentino understands.

  SINIBALDI (_laughing_): Is it? The events hardly encourage him. The
strong hand has been well displayed before Solignola to little purpose;
and it’s been exerting itself, too, for a week, without result.

  CAPELLO: Ay! How do you reconcile that with your theory, sir?

  MACCHIAVELLI: I don’t.

  SINIBALDI: But then . . . ?

  MACCHIAVELLI: I look beyond for a reason.

      [_There is a pause._ SINIBALDI _and_ CAPELLO _are a little
   uneasy_.

  SINIBALDI (_sardonic_): Oh? And you see?

  MACCHIAVELLI: Nothing. Therefore, I am the more suspicious.

  CAPELLO (_breathlessly_): And you suspect?

  MACCHIAVELLI: That Solignola is being stimulated into resistance by
one of the great powers of Italy.

  SINIBALDI (_taken aback, then counterfeiting amusement_): But how very
interesting! And your evidence?

  MACCHIAVELLI: Evidence? I leave evidence to dullards, lord prince. I
have my wits.

  CAPELLO: They are renowned. (_Bowing._) The Signory of Florence is
most fortunate in her Secretary of State.

  MACCHIAVELLI: Scarcely so fortunate as the Serene Republic of Venice
in her ambassadors—ordinary (_bowing to_ CAPELLO) and extraordinary
(_to_ SINIBALDI).

  SINIBALDI _and_ CAPELLO (_speaking together_): O, sir!

  SINIBALDI: But from whom should Solignola expect assistance, Messer
Macchiavelli?

  MACCHIAVELLI: Ah, that . . . ! I can tell you from whom she does not
expect it. Nothing more.

  SINIBALDI: And the duke? Does he share your views? He honours you with
a deal of his confidence.

  MACCHIAVELLI: The duke, lord prince, honours no man with his
confidence. He allows some odd fools to think so. That is all.

      [_There is laughter in the ambassadorial group._ SINIBALDI _turns
   away_.

  SINIBALDI: What keeps his magnificence this morning? He is not usually
so late in giving audience.

      [_The_ CAPTAINS _drawn by the laughter have moved up to join the
   Ambassadors_. RAMIREZ _answers him_.

  RAMIREZ: A courier has just arrived from Cesena. I would to Heaven he
had broken his neck on the way, or else arrived sooner. He keeps us
cooling our heels here, when our work is under the walls of Solignola.

      [RAMIREZ _is a vigorous man of thirty, swarthy, and bearded in the
   Spanish fashion, truculent of air and carriage, fully conscious of
   the fact that he is a great soldier_.

  SINIBALDI: And how does the work advance, Don Diego?

  RAMIREZ: It doesn’t advance at all, devil take it! I have conducted
fifteen sieges in my time, and brought them all to a capitulation. But
this one. . . .

  SCIPIONE: We’ve wasted a whole week there to no purpose at all.

      [SCIPIONE, _a tall, fair man of about_ RAMIREZ’ _age,
   self-confident and downright, but without any of truculent swagger
   that distinguishes his brother captain_.

  RAMIREZ: Curses on the fool that perched a town on a spot that’s only
fit for goats.

      [_The door at back opens. There is a general stir of expectancy.
   A_ CHAMBERLAIN _in a surcoat, chain of office on his breast, a wand
   in his hand, emerges and comes to the head of the steps. He is
   accompanied by a_ COURIER _who comes down, and goes out R_.

  CHAMBERLAIN: Don Diego Ramirez!

  RAMIREZ: Here! (_Swaggering forward._)

  CHAMBERLAIN: His highness desires you to confer at once with Captain
da Corella, who has commands for you.

  RAMIREZ (_self-sufficiently_): It is important that I see his
highness, himself.

  CHAMBERLAIN: Later, perhaps. Not now. Those are his orders.

      [_He turns to the pages._

  CHAMBERLAIN: Here, Giacopo! Conduct the Captain to Messer da Corella.

  RAMIREZ (_with a shrug_): Ouf! (_To_ SCIPIONE _and_ FERRANTE.) Come
along, you others. Let us go and see what Micheletto has to say.

  PAGE: This way, your worthiness.

      [_He opens and holds the door up L._ RAMIREZ _and the other_ TWO
   CAPTAINS _stride out_. _The_ PAGE _follows, closing the door_.

  CHAMBERLAIN: Cardinal Remolino, his highness will see you at once.

  CARDINAL: I come. You give me leave, ladies . . . and you, sirs.

      [_There is an exchange of courtesies._

  CHAMBERLAIN (_addressing the antechamber generally_): His highness
will be occupied for some time yet. It is pleasanter on the loggia here
at the gallery’s end. (_He indicates it, Off R._)

      [_The_ COURTIERS (_i.e., ladies and gallants_) _rise and begin to
   move up in the wake of the Cardinal, but some distance behind him. As
   the latter passes up the steps he beckons the_ MONKS, _who rise and
   follow him. They pass through the door at the back. The_ CHAMBERLAIN
   _is about to retire when_ SINIBALDI _detains him_.

  SINIBALDI: Will you say to his highness that I am here to pay my
homage?

      [_The_ CHAMBERLAIN _bows, and withdraws through the door at back,
   which he closes_.

      [_The_ COURTIERS _now move up the steps, along the gallery to the
   right, and so pass out of view, laughing and chatting. As the last of
   them are disappearing, the main doors are opened, and the_ SWISS
   _enters, ushering_ PANTHASILEA _and_ GIULIA. _The_ SWISS _on guard
   above now shoulders his pike, and begins to pace the gallery’s
   length, disappearing from view for a moment or two each time that he
   reaches either of the visible ends of it_.

  SWISS: In here, madonna. His highness will be giving audience soon.

      [SINIBALDI _sees her, and at once leaves the ambassadorial group,
   which by now has moved over to the window, where the other three
   remain closely in talk, their backs to the stage_.

  SINIBALDI: My homage, madonna.

  PANTHASILEA: Lord prince.

      [_He bows, then glances furtively at the group in the window.
   Seeing its members engrossed, he draws closer to her, and lowers his
   voice._

  SINIBALDI: Is this prudent? That you should thrust yourself in here?

  PANTHASILEA (_smiling and calm_): It is necessary to make a beginning.
I have waited a week, plaguing my wits to find a way.

  SINIBALDI: But to come—into the lion’s den. It is very rash.

  PANTHASILEA: Not more than the rest of the enterprise. I seek audience
of the duke, such as is accorded to all who seek it. Moreover, I have a
definite reason. I come to ask for justice.

  SINIBALDI: On what grounds?

  PANTHASILEA: The best that my invention could discover. I have no
fear—save as concerns Gianluca. He is hostile—madly hostile—to the
whole business.

  SINIBALDI: I thought you had persuaded him. . . .

  PANTHASILEA: So did I. But he’s recanted. He won’t be persuaded. He
raves and rants, and swears that at need he will kill the duke with his
own hands rather than let me carry through my project.

  SINIBALDI (_alarmed_): Then if he knows that you have come here . . .

  PANTHASILEA: He doesn’t. I have eluded him. Once he knows that I am
definitely committed, he will perforce submit. But you, sir? Is it wise
of you to stand in talk with me so long?

  SINIBALDI: I know you as Madonna Bianca Bracci of Spoleto. I have made
your acquaintance since coming here to Assisi. Why should it be unwise
of me to talk to you?

  PANTHASILEA: You misunderstand. It might be unwise of Monna Bianca
Bracci of Spoleto to be seen talking to the envoy-extraordinary of
Venice. The Serene Republic is in none such good odour hereabouts.

  SINIBALDI (_bowing, with an ironic smile_): I see. In that case . . .

      [_The door at back has opened again, and the_ CHAMBERLAIN
   _reappears_.

  CHAMBERLAIN: Prince Sinibaldi!

      [SINIBALDI _starts round_.

  CHAMBERLAIN: His highness is distressed that you should wait. But
affairs detain him still. If your business is urgent, he informs you and
(_to the other Ambassadors_) you also, sirs, that his secretary Messer
Agabito will see you at once.

  CAPELLO: For me, Messer Agabito will serve excellently.

  GASPARO: And for me also.

  CHAMBERLAIN: His highness will hope to see you before you leave. (_To_
PAGE.) Tolomeo, conduct their notabilities to Messer Agabito.

      [_The_ PAGE _rises, and steps forward. The_ CHAMBERLAIN _bows and
   withdraws again. The_ AMBASSADORS _pass round to the steps, and up
   these, conducted by the_ PAGE, _who leads the way off along the
   gallery to the left_.

      [SINIBALDI _bows to_ PANTHASILEA, _who seats herself on the settle
   down left, with_ GIULIA _behind her. He is turning away, when the
   main doors open abruptly and_ GIANLUCA _surges in, the Swiss
   restraining him_.

  SWISS: Nay, nay, noble sir! Whither so fast?

  GIANLUCA (_wildly excited_): Why do you detain me? I . . . I . . .
(_He espies_ SINIBALDI.) I am of the household of Prince Sinibaldi. I
have a message for him.

      [SINIBALDI STIFFENS. PANTHASILEA _rises again_.

  SWISS: Why didn’t your worthiness say so?

  GIANLUCA: I’ve said so now. Let me pass.

  SWISS: Not with that sword. No weapons are allowed within this door.

  GIANLUCA: Oh, a plague on it. Here! Take the thing.

      [GIANLUCA _hastily lifts the sword from its carriages. The_ SWISS
   _takes it and goes out, closing the doors again_. GIANLUCA _springs
   towards_ PANTHASILEA. SINIBALDI _gets in his way_.

  SINIBALDI: I trust, sir, that since you’ve made so free with my name,
and connected yourself with me, you are not considering any rashness
here. You’ll remember where you are!

  GIANLUCA (_fuming at the detention_): Rashness? Far from it, I am here
to prevent a rashness.

  SINIBALDI: By argument alone?

  GIANLUCA: How else? Besides, man, they’ve taken my weapons. How they
guard this pestilent duke!

  SINIBALDI: Sh! Be prudent, sir—for your own sake, and that of others.
(_Impressively._)

      [_He turns and goes up, and slowly off, along the gallery to the
   left as the others went._

      [_The stage is now empty save for_ GIANLUCA, PANTHASILEA _and_
   GIULIA, _and the_ SWISS _who stolidly parades the gallery at back and
   intermittently disappears_.

  GIANLUCA: Thank God I am in time!

  PANTHASILEA: In time for what? In time to ruin me? O, you are mad to
have followed me here.

  GIANLUCA: You are mad to have come. What can you hope to do? Come
away, Lea. Come away at once.

  PANTHASILEA: In all this week, Gianluca, you have tried my patience to
the utmost. I have suffered it out of a mistaken tenderness.

  GIANLUCA: Don’t be angry with me, Lea; you know what it is that urges
me to screen and guard you even from your own self.

  PANTHASILEA: That knowledge has given me my patience. But this
patience is worn out. By your madness, if you persist in it, you may
ruin all, including yourself and me, and Solignola. So go!

  GIANLUCA (_doggedly_): I will not go without you! I will not have you
do this thing. I will not!

  PANTHASILEA: You will not? By what right do you say that to me?

  GIANLUCA (_snapping his fingers_): That for right! You shall not do
it. You shall not brand yourself with this infamy—this Delilah work.

  PANTHASILEA: Sh! You fool! Will you shout it from the housetops?—and
have us both sent to the strangler? How dare you come ranting here,
telling me what I shall and shall not do?

  GIANLUCA (_desperately_): I am presumptuous in that I love you, Lea.
That is why I abhor to see you shouldering so vile a task—making a lure
of your matchless beauty, to . . .

  PANTHASILEA: Stop!

      [_For a moment they stand looking at each other._

  PANTHASILEA: You have gone the length of insult.

  GIANLUCA: Forgive me, Lea!

  PANTHASILEA: We will forget what you have said—all of it. As long as
I am in Assisi, I must continue to use your house; but I trust that you
will relieve me of your attendance, thus sparing me the memory of your
offence.

  GIANLUCA: Ah, Lea, I didn’t mean it as you think. I . . .

  PANTHASILEA: Messer Gianluca, to be frank, I care nothing what you
meant. But I beg you to respect my wishes without driving me to take
measures to enforce them.

      [_The_ COURTIERS _come sauntering back, along the gallery from the
   right_.

  GIANLUCA (_furiously piqued_): Depend upon it, I shall not trouble you
again . . . ever.

  PANTHASILEA: Control your voice. We are no longer alone.

  GIANLUCA: Madonna, I take my leave.

      [_He bows curtly_; PANTHASILEA _turns her shoulder. He swings on
   his heel, and goes angrily out, as the_ COURTIERS _come down the
   steps_.

  GIULIA: Poor Messer Gianluca! He means you well, madonna.

  PANTHASILEA: Maybe, but I think I shall be more comfortable in his
indifference.

  GIULIA: Are you sure, madonna, that he is not right?

  PANTHASILEA (_sitting down again on the settle_): Perhaps he is. But I
have that to do in which I must not count the cost. I must remember only
all the lives that hang upon it, Giulia.

      [_The main doors are violently opened by the_ SWISS. _A_ COURIER
   _enters, haggard, dust-covered, a leather satchel slung about his
   body. The_ SWISS _faces towards the gallery, and roars_.

  SWISS: Ho there! Who waits?

      [_A_ PAGE _appears suddenly from doorway left, and answers
   nervously_.

  PAGE: Here!

  SWISS: Where were you hiding?

      [RAMIREZ, SCIPIONE _and_ FERRANTE _emerge from the same door,
   accompanied by_ MICHELE DA CORELLA (_known as_ MICHELETTO). _He is
   the most trusted of Cesare Borgia’s captains and the highest in
   authority. He is a small, slight man, swarthy of face, with a black
   beard. He is bareheaded, and his hair is long, reaching to his
   shoulders. He is plainly dressed, as a soldier, but without armour,
   and his only visible weapon is a heavy dagger on his right hip._

      [_The_ SWISS _continues to address the_ PAGE.

  SWISS: Here’s a courier from Rome for the Duke’s magnificence. Conduct
him.

      [_The_ PAGE _goes up, the_ COURIER _following him, and knocks at
   the door at back. The_ CHAMBERLAIN _opens it, the_ COURIER _is drawn
   inside, and the door closed again_.

      [_The_ PAGE _lounges down to the bench on the left under gallery.
   The_ SWISS _meanwhile has withdrawn again, and closed the doors. The_
   CAPTAINS _have broken into conversation, as they saunter across to
   the right, towards the window_.

      [_The_ COURTIERS _are clustering down left about the table_.

  RAMIREZ: Fifteen sieges have I conducted successfully in my day; but
may I be damned if ever I had to reduce such a place as this.

  CORELLA: You haven’t reduced it yet, and by your present methods I’ll
be damned if you ever will.

  RAMIREZ (_snorting_): Oho! And why not, if you please, Micheletto?

  CORELLA: Because, they are of no avail.

  RAMIREZ (_truculent_): Who says so?

  CORELLA: I say so, and his highness says so.

  RAMIREZ: That you should say so, Micheletto, and that his highness
should say are two totally different things.

  CORELLA: In this case, we both say the same thing.

  RAMIREZ (_sneering_): Of course you do. You may be depended upon to
say what his highness says.

  CORELLA: On the contrary; it was I who drew the attention of his
highness to this state of things.

  RAMIREZ: When was that?

  CORELLA: Last night. I told his highness . . .

  RAMIREZ: Oh! You told his highness, did you?

      [_The_ AMBASSADORS _return along the gallery from the left
   accompanied by_ AGABITO. _The latter, Cesare Borgia’s secretary, is
   dressed in black, and has almost the air of a cleric. His face is
   round and shaven and pale; he is rather paunchy, and oily in his
   manner; a man of between forty and fifty, with thin grey hair, kept
   short._

      [RAMIREZ _goes truculently on_.

  RAMIREZ: And pray what did you tell him?

  CORELLA: Why, that if we are not to sit here for ever, some other plan
of operations will have to be devised.

  RAMIREZ: Oh! And what was the plan you advised?

  CORELLA: I have made no suggestions yet.

  RAMIREZ: Ah! That is wise of you.

  SCIPIONE: Now what do you mean by that, Ramirez?

  RAMIREZ (_exploding_): Mean? Lord of Heaven! I mean that I’m a
Spaniard—that’s what I mean; and that what a Spaniard doesn’t know
about the art of war, no Italian pimp in the world can teach him. (_In a
towering rage._) That’s what I mean! Do I make myself plain?

      [SCIPIONE _and_ CORELLA _laugh at his rage_.

  SCIPIONE: Ho, ho, ho! A Spaniard, eh, Micheletto?

  CORELLA: It’s lucky for you the duke can’t hear you.

  RAMIREZ: The duke! If the duke is the greatest soldier in Italy that’s
because he’s half a Spaniard. And I say it again, and who contradicts me
is a liar. The Spaniard is the first soldier in the world.

  SCIPIONE (_tauntingly, through laughter_): Next to the Italian,
Ramirez. Next to the Italian.

      [_He and_ CORELLA _go off into laughter again._

  RAMIREZ: What’s to laugh at?

  SCIPIONE: You, you Spanish Rhodomont. Ho, ho, ho!

  RAMIREZ (_laying a hand on his hilt_): Rhodomont! I take that from no
man; from no man in all this world.

  CORELLA (_suddenly grave_): Ramirez! Be quiet, you fool!

  RAMIREZ: He called me Rhodomont.

  CORELLA: And now you’re proving that he’s right.

  RAMIREZ: What’s that? (_He bares his sword._) You miserable Italian
capons!

      [_There is a roar from_ SCIPIONE _and_ CORELLA _and counter-roars
   from_ RAMIREZ _and from_ FERRANTE, _who sides with him_. SCIPIONE
   _and_ CORELLA _fling themselves upon_ RAMIREZ _to disarm him. There
   are screams from the ladies, whilst the gallants, to increase the
   uproar and confusion, rush noisily in to separate the disputants.
   There is a seething, roaring mob to the right of the steps, and the
   two_ PAGES _hover gleefully on the skirts of it, enjoying the fun_.

      [_The_ AMBASSADORS, _grouped left, watch the turmoil in alarm.
   Down stage_, PANTHASILEA _is soothing_ GIULIA, _who has loosed a
   scream or two. Through the incoherent vociferations are heard
   intermittently the phrases_:

  RAMIREZ: Teach me the art of war!

  CORELLA: You Spanish buffoon!

  RAMIREZ: You Italian dogs!

  SCIPIONE: Let me come at you!

  CORELLA: Quiet, you fool!

  RAMIREZ: I’ll carve your livers into ribbons!

      [_The uproar and clamour have reached their height when suddenly,
   abruptly, as if a door had been shut, all is quiet. The seething mass
   disintegrates, and its members stand cowed and stricken, suddenly
   conscious of a presence._

      [_At the head of the steps_ VALENTINOIS _stands looking down upon
   them, cold, severe, inscrutable_.

      [_He is a young man of twenty-five, tall, elegant, virile. His
   face is pale, his eyes large and glowing. His auburn hair is bushed
   out behind into a clump, held by a fine network of gold. His paler
   auburn beard is delicately pointed. He wears on his head the scarlet
   cap of the gonfalonier, on his breast the collar of the order of St.
   Michael. He is dressed in a long surcoat of deep wine-coloured velvet
   that reaches almost to his feet, caught about his middle by a
   jewelled girdle, from which a dagger hangs on his hip. This surcoat
   is reversed with ermine. Under it he wears a doublet of cloth of
   gold, a wedge of which is seen at the breast, and the sleeves of
   which are revealed to the elbow, whence his arms emerge from the wide
   escalloped sleeves of the outer garment._

      [_After a pause in which he surveys the occupants of the
   antechamber, his cold, level, utterly dispassionate voice cuts
   sharply upon the silence._

  VALENTINOIS: Is this an antechamber, a tavern, or a stable?

      [_The_ FOUR CAPTAINS _stand hang-dog_.

  PANTHASILEA (_to_ GIULIA, _breathlessly_): Who is that?

  GIULIA: The Duke of Valentinois.

  PANTHASILEA (_incredulously_): That? Oh, impossible!

  VALENTINOIS: Am I become of no account? Are there not ladies present?
(_Without raising his voice._) That sword, Diego? Why is it bare? Did
you draw it in my service? (_More sharply._) Answer me!

  RAMIREZ (_faltering_): Magnificent, I . . . we . . . had a . . . a
difference. . . .

  VALENTINOIS: Oh, you had a difference. Stand forth there.

      [RAMIREZ _shuffles forward to the foot of the steps_. VALENTINOIS
   _turns to the_ CHAMBERLAIN.

  VALENTINOIS: The guard.

      [_The_ CHAMBERLAIN _signs to the_ SWISS _at the main entrance, who
   in his turn signs to someone else off right. A second_ SWISS
   _advances, and together they come forward_. VALENTINOIS _comes down
   to the lowest step_.

  VALENTINOIS: Give me that sword.

      [RAMIREZ _surrenders it, but exclaims on a pleading note_.

  RAMIREZ: Magnificent!

  VALENTINOIS (_severely_): In Urbino your turbulence was a source of
infinite trouble to me, and it provided scandal-mongers with filth to
cast upon my name. You were warned then. And now—this. You dog!

      [RAMIREZ _recoils as if struck, exclaiming indignantly_:

  RAMIREZ: Highness! I am a soldier—a captain in . . .

  VALENTINOIS: Captain of mine no longer.

      [_To the_ SWISS:

Take him away.

      [_The_ SWISS _swing_ RAMIREZ _about_.

  RAMIREZ (_between anger and fear_): Highness! Oh—h!

      [_He is dragged off by his guards._ VALENTINOIS _looks sternly at
   the other captains_.

  VALENTINOIS: Let this be a warning to you to adjust your differences
in the future elsewhere than on my threshold.

      [_He comes down left, towards the_ =Ambassadors.
   Panthasilea= _looks on wide-eyed, a little bewildered_.
   VALENTINOIS _addresses the_ AMBASSADOR OF FERRARA.

  VALENTINOIS: Messer Mariano, we have the congratulatory letters from
our noble cousin of Ferrara. Our love and duty to him. We hope to see
him soon in Rome.

      [MARIANO _bows_. VALENTINOIS _passes on_.

  VALENTINOIS: My lord prince—and Messer Capello. Faith! Venice is
well-represented here.

  SINIBALDI: The Serene Republic, magnificent, desires to give proofs of
her respect and wonder.

  VALENTINOIS: Ambassadorially she honours me beyond my poor deserts.
And what, Messer Capello, is the newest gossip from the Mistress of the
Adriatic? What do they say of us in Venice now? Whom have we recently
murdered or betrayed? What Cardinals has our father poisoned lately?
What new lover has our sister taken to her bed?

  CAPELLO (_aghast_): These are jests, highness!

  VALENTINOIS: They are. The jests of Venice—a city of jesters,
clearly; a little morbid perhaps in her pleasantries, a little dull in
her invention. Still, when I need a fool I’ll seek one in Venice.

      [SINIBALDI _and_ CAPELLO _mask their rage in mechanical smiles,
   exchanging looks eloquent of their common hate as_ VALENTINOIS
   _passes on_.

  VALENTINOIS: Messer Gasparo, you will inform your beautiful and
accomplished Lady Isabella of Este of my delight in the masks she has
had the sweet thought to send me. You shall tell her of their joyous use
at a supper to which you are bidden for to-night. We deserve, I think, a
little revelry after our latest labour of Hercules—the cleaning of the
Augean Stable of the Romagna.

Meanwhile, and concerned with this, there is a spectacle of another sort
preparing in the market-place here at Assisi.

The Orsini traitors—the Duke of Gravina and his brother—will be
strangled there at noon precisely.

      [_There is a general movement followed by a rather awe-stricken
   stillness._

  VALENTINOIS: Letters from Rome bring me word of the arrest of Cardinal
Orsini and the Archbishop of Florence. So that . . . (_he dismisses the
matter with a wave and a sigh_). You will be impatient, sirs, to send
that news to your governments. You have leave to go. We look to see you
at our table to-night.

      [_The_ AMBASSADORS _bow, and make shift to withdraw_. VALENTINOIS
   _detains_ MACCHIAVELLI, _placing a hand on the Florentine’s arm_.

  VALENTINOIS: You will oblige me by remaining, Ser Niccolò. The
dispatches from the Signory are inconclusive. We must talk—you and I.

  MACCHIAVELLI: Your highness is very gracious.

      [VALENTINOIS _crosses R. to the_ COURTIERS, _whilst the_
   AMBASSADOR _and_ SINIBALDI _go towards the main doors_.

  VALENTINOIS: Ladies, I would that my quarters here were worthier your
gracing, and that my affairs gave me leisure to enjoy your presence. But
we trust that fortune will make amends to-night if you will ennoble by
your attendance the masque we are preparing. Till then, ladies, and you,
my lords, you have our reluctant leave.

      [_He bows, including_ PANTHASILEA _in invitation and dismissal.
   The men return his bow, the ladies curtsy._

      [_The_ CHAMBERLAIN _throws open the main doors, and all troop out,
   save_ PANTHASILEA _and_ GIULIA, _who remain downstage left_,
   MACCHIAVELLI _near the table, with_ AGABITO _and the_ CAPTAINS _up
   right_. VALENTINOIS _turns to these, addressing_ CORELLA.

  VALENTINOIS: Well, Micheletto? Solignola is the only important Romagna
State that still holds out. How long is it to continue to do so?

      [PANTHASILEA _stiffens into attention_.

  CORELLA: The devil knows, highness. There’s never another stronghold
like it in Italy. If your magnificence would come and view the siege
works. . . .

  VALENTINOIS: I’ve been. I rode out early this morning. The
dispositions are elementary. We must do better if we are to make a
speedy end.

  CORELLA: The dispositions were Ramirez’, my lord. If your highness
will show us how . . .

  VALENTINOIS: It is done. My secretary will show you. (_He calls over
his shoulder._) Agabito!

  AGABITO (_advancing_): Highness.

  VALENTINOIS: Take Captain da Corella, and show him the map I have
prepared. Explain my notes to him. When you’ve studied it, Micheletto,
I’ll make clear anything that may remain in doubt. Go with him,
Ferrante. You, Scipione, may remain.

      [AGABITO _leads_ CORELLA _and_ FERRANTE _up and out through door
   at back_. VALENTINOIS _turns from them to_ MACCHIAVELLI, _smiling_.

  VALENTINOIS: And now, my wily, slippery Florentine eel. . . .

      [_Seeing_ PANTHASILEA _as he turns, he checks, and stands at gaze
   a moment. Then he distantly inclines his head._

  VALENTINOIS: Madonna, why do you wait? I gave leave to all awhile ago.

  PANTHASILEA (_conquering the nervousness that besets her under his
glance_): I . . . I came, my lord, for a special purpose.

  VALENTINOIS (_smiling ironically_): But for special purposes, madonna,
there are the special people I have appointed to my service.

  PANTHASILEA: Your patience, highness, but this is a matter upon which
I could have little hope from any but yourself.

  VALENTINOIS: Why so?

  PANTHASILEA: Because it is said of you that you are the soul of
justice.

  VALENTINOIS: Is it? Of me? Where is that said? Whence are you,
madonna?

  PANTHASILEA: From Spoleto, magnificent.

  VALENTINOIS: And they say that of me in Spoleto, do they? What ails
them in Spoleto that they should speak the truth?

  PANTHASILEA: They have no cause to do otherwise, highness.

  VALENTINOIS: They have no cause elsewhere in Italy. Nevertheless,
you’ll find that everywhere they speak—Italian. What is your name,
madonna?

  PANTHASILEA: I am called Bianca Bracci, highness.

  VALENTINOIS: Bracci! An honourable name. And what may have brought you
from the veracious city of Spoleto to this Assisi where the truth has
probably not been heard since St. Francis died?

  PANTHASILEA: Family reasons, magnificent. I came a week ago—on the
very day of your highness’s arrival.

  VALENTINOIS: Undeterred by it?

  PANTHASILEA: Encouraged by it, my lord.

  VALENTINOIS: Ah?

  PANTHASILEA: It was not unnatural that I should desire to see for
myself the most illustrious of the Gonfaloniers of Holy Church, the
matchless soldier who has restored the Romagna fiefs to the patrimony of
St. Peter, the mirror of chivalry whom the King of France honours
himself in honouring.

  VALENTINOIS (_conning her with narrowed eyes_): Flattery, madonna, may
be the shortest cut to most men’s confidence. It is the longest way to
mine.

  PANTHASILEA (_scandalized_): Flattery? I spoke from my heart.

  VALENTINOIS: A courtier’s heart by the ring of your words.

  PANTHASILEA: No courtier, highness. I am country-bred. Nor have I said
that you are all this. But merely that I had heard it said so.

  VALENTINOIS: In Spoleto?

  PANTHASILEA: In Spoleto.

  VALENTINOIS: Decidedly I must go to Spoleto. But you said, I think,
that a special reason detains you here.

  PANTHASILEA (_suddenly grave_): They say of your highness that you are
of a justice that is terrible but always just.

  VALENTINOIS (_suspiciously_): Is it justice you require of me?

  PANTHASILEA: I had with me a young waiting-woman—a mere child, who
was good and pious, and beautiful—to her undoing perhaps, though I
still pray that it may not be so. This child, Francesca Lidana is her
name, has disappeared. She vanished yesterday afternoon.

      [VALENTINOIS _stares at her in astonishment; then he speaks with
   some indignation in his voice_.

  VALENTINOIS: And you come to me! You break in on me, who am engaged
upon matters that may set nations tottering, with such a trumpery affair
as this?

  PANTHASILEA (_heatedly_): Trumpery? Is brutal violence, perhaps the
murder of one who is your subject, maybe the ruin of a soul, a trumpery
affair? (_With a half-sneer._) They told me you were justice incarnate.

  VALENTINOIS: I have established courts, madonna, to see that the
public peace is kept and to protect persons and property. There is my
Captain of Justice here in Assisi.

  PANTHASILEA: I have appealed to him without satisfaction.

  VALENTINOIS: What?

  PANTHASILEA: I understand that such a court should hesitate to move
against your soldiers—against your officers, perhaps.

  VALENTINOIS: Why else have I established it? Or do you think that I
govern like the Baglioni, the Malatesta, the Speranzoni, and all these
other brigands who have preyed upon this unfortunate Romagna?

      [PANTHASILEA _quivers at the mention of her own name; but
   instantly recovers_.

  PANTHASILEA: It is because I do not that I have come to you.

  VALENTINOIS (_after a moment’s pause, as if irresolute_): Let me
understand this thing. You spoke of violence and murder—hinting that it
was the work of my men. What is the full tale of this woman’s
disappearance?

  PANTHASILEA: I sent her on an errand. The streets were full of
soldiers at the time. Myself I saw a group of men in your liveries—with
the Bull escutcheon on their breasts—lounging before my house when she
went forth.

  VALENTINOIS: Where is your house?

  PANTHASILEA: By the Temple of Minerva. It is the house of Messer
Gianluca della Pieve. He is a distant relative.

  VALENTINOIS: And you reside with him?

  PANTHASILEA: Oh no, highness. In his house. He has ceded it to me.

  VALENTINOIS: No matter. You saw the maid go forth. What next?

  PANTHASILEA: That is all.

  VALENTINOIS: All?

  PANTHASILEA: Save that she has not yet returned.

  VALENTINOIS: But you spoke of violence—of murder!

  PANTHASILEA: What else is to be presumed? Why else should she continue
absent?

  VALENTINOIS: Little wonder that the Captain of Justice would not take
action upon such slender grounds. Wait until the wench returns, madonna.

  PANTHASILEA: But if she should not return?

  VALENTINOIS: Seek my Captain of Justice again. He shall have orders
from me.

  PANTHASILEA: Of your charity—of your great justice, highness—will
you not give those orders now, orders that search be made for her?
Consider what the delay may mean to this poor child. Consider what it
means to me, magnificent, who feel myself responsible to the mother who
entrusted her to me.

  VALENTINOIS (_smiling_): When I need an advocate, Monna Bianca, I
shall send for you, I think. Content you. My Captain of Justice shall
have commands at once to make such search as you may order.

      [_He is standing by the table, and now as he speaks he stoops and
   scrawls some lines on a sheet of paper._

  VALENTINOIS: Go to him again with that, and give him all details he
may ask. I trust your little maid may be restored to you undamaged. If
otherwise—I shall see justice done.

  PANTHASILEA (_effusively_): I knew that your potency would not deny
me.

  VALENTINOIS: You knew that no man could; and you traded a little upon
that, I think, madonna. A dangerous—dangerous trade. But your gratitude
must give proofs.

  PANTHASILEA: Proofs?

  VALENTINOIS: There are revels here to-night; a supper to the
patricians of Assisi, to be followed by a masque. You will grace it with
your presence, madonna.

  PANTHASILEA: Your magnificence does me too much honour.

      [_She curtsies._

  VALENTINOIS (_graciously_): So that you come, the honour will be of
your conferring. Until to-night, Madonna Bianca.

  PANTHASILEA (_assentingly, curtsying again_): Highness!

  VALENTINOIS: The door, Scipione.

      [SCIPIONE _hastens forward to hold the door for_ PANTHASILEA, _who
   goes out with_ GIULIA.

      [VALENTINOIS _watches her off; then saunters up, speaking to_
   MACCHIAVELLI.

  VALENTINOIS: A very beautiful woman, Master Secretary, and fully aware
of it; knowing, too—mark you—though merely country-bred, that beauty
is a coinage universally honoured. Ready, as I judge her, to spend it in
purchasing whatever she may require of life.

  MACCHIAVELLI: Your highness describes not a woman, but womankind.

  VALENTINOIS: Oho!

  MACCHIAVELLI: And this lady of Spoleto seemed in some ways
extraordinary.

  VALENTINOIS: You observed it, too, did you? I wonder does anything
escape you.

  MACCHIAVELLI: At least all those things that escape your highness; and
many that do not.

  VALENTINOIS: Faith, Ser Niccolò, you are yourself the chief of those
things . . . (_He crosses to the window, and looks out._) . . . the most
elusive of them all.

  MACCHIAVELLI: I, magnificent! I am candour incarnate—transparent as
glass.

  VALENTINOIS (_pointing upwards to the arc of the windows_): Stained
glass—that allows the light to pass in, but nothing to pass out. (_He
breaks off._) Ah, there she goes, stepping so very proud and
dainty. . . . Ah! Who is that? (_He cranes forward._) Scipione, you are
an Assisian. Who is that man standing in talk with her, do you know?

      [SCIPIONE _comes to his side at the window, and looks out_.

  SCIPIONE: The gentleman is very vehement, highness.

  VALENTINOIS: Vehement! He is angry. Observe me his arms, thrashing the
air like the sails of a windmill. There, now—do you see his face?

  SCIPIONE: Yes . . . Yes . . . that’s it. He is Gianluca della Pieve.

  VALENTINOIS: Gianluca della Pieve? Ah, yes, her distant relative. He
doesn’t behave like a distant relative. A husband couldn’t better the
performance. (_Turning from the window._) Gianluca della Pieve, eh? Now
where have I heard that name before?

  SCIPIONE: He is the gentleman who abstained when the patricians of
Assisi swore fealty to your highness.

  VALENTINOIS: Oh, yes. He was absent then. I wonder where he was.
Anyway, he is present now, and he hasn’t troubled to repair the
omission. It almost seems as if his absence might have been intentional.
(_He turns to the window again._) Scipione, I should like to discover
where Messer Gianluca della Pieve has been. I should like a word with
him. Ah, there he goes, striding off. After him, Scipione. Desire him to
attend me here at once.

  SCIPIONE: And if he decline to come?

  VALENTINOIS (_dryly_): Persuade him.

      [SCIPIONE _hurries out by main doors_. VALENTINOIS _turns to_
   MACCHIAVELLI.

  VALENTINOIS: I wonder now is a connection possible between his absence
and the presence here in Assisi of that lady with whom he has the bad
manners to be so very angry. Pshaw! I am beginning to start at shadows.
But I have walked so long amid snares that . . . (_He shrugs, and
laughs._)

  MACCHIAVELLI: That you understand the art of detecting them, however
they may be dissembled.

  VALENTINOIS: Do I? I wish I could detect the snare that treachery is
preparing for me here in Assisi. I have seen signs, very vague as yet,
but very familiar. (_He pulls open the breast of surcoat and doublet,
displaying the meshes of a shirt of mail._) I go in steel, and I never
eat or drink without a venom taster at my elbow to take his chance of
hell before me. This it is, Master Secretary, to be a conqueror. To walk
ever in the shadow of assassins and worse than assassins. Do I rant?

  MACCHIAVELLI: Nay, highness, I am admiring your restraint.

  VALENTINOIS: Look at my work. This Romagna was a bloody playground for
rapacious despots, brigands in authority, glutting themselves like
vampires upon their miserable subjects; it has been cleaned out. Saving
that robber’s nest of Solignola, the work is done. The Malatesta, the
Vitelli, the Varani, the Oliverotti and all the rest of that infamous
brood of tyrants are gone. The place no longer reeks like a shambles.
Men may breathe, and lift their heads, and go about their honest lives
secure in the protection of my laws. Yet Venice plots my ruin,
bespatters me with calumny, whilst sending me fawning ambassadors like
Sinibaldi and Capello. Milan seeks to destroy my friendship with the
King of France. Naples conspires with Spain to pull me down.

  MACCHIAVELLI: That is the price of achievement. It begets envy. The
man who has no enemies, magnificent, has nothing.

  VALENTINOIS: Then am I rich, indeed! Here, I think, comes Scipione
with our reluctant patrician.

      [_The main doors open to admit_ GIANLUCA, _ushered in by_
   SCIPIONE; GIANLUCA’S _air is one of extreme uneasiness_.

  MACCHIAVELLI: I take my leave, magnificent. . . .

  VALENTINOIS: No, no. Let me trespass a moment on your patience. We
have yet to settle the terms of the treaty. This matter asks no secrecy.

  SCIPIONE: Here, highness, is Messer Gianluca della Pieve.

  VALENTINOIS: Ah, yes.

      [_He comes slowly down, his eyes glitteringly intent upon_
   GIANLUCA’S _face, heightening the latter’s uneasiness_.

  VALENTINOIS: We have waited a week to give you welcome, sir. As we
seemed in danger of having to forgo the honour, we were constrained to
send for you.

      [GIANLUCA _bows, his uneasiness growing to fear. He does not
   answer._

  VALENTINOIS: Although you are one of Assisi’s first citizens, you were
not present when the patricians took the oath on Sunday last. We shall
be reassured by the reason for your absence.

  GIANLUCA: I . . . I . . . I . . . was not in Assisi at the time,
magnificent.

      [VALENTINOIS _observes him narrowly, noticing his hesitation_.

  VALENTINOIS: You were not in Assisi, eh?

  GIANLUCA: No-o.

      [_A pause._

  VALENTINOIS: Well, sir? Have you nothing to add? When did you return?

  GIANLUCA: On . . . on the day after.

  VALENTINOIS: Yet you made no effort to repair the omission.

  GIANLUCA: I . . . I judged the opportunity had passed.

  VALENTINOIS: I see. Tell me, Ser Gianluca, when did you leave Assisi?

  GIANLUCA (_hesitating_): On the day of your potency’s arrival.

  VALENTINOIS: And what was the urgent business that took you from home
at such a moment?

      [GIANLUCA’S _uneasiness is visibly increased_. VALENTINOIS
   _observes it. His tone, silken hitherto, becomes suddenly of steel._

  VALENTINOIS: Dare you tell us that?

      [GIANLUCA _starts_.

  VALENTINOIS: Dare you tell us where you went?

      [GIANLUCA _trembles at that tone of implied knowledge and menace_.

  VALENTINOIS: You hesitate, eh? Faith, well you may. It begins to occur
to you at last that they do not lie who say we have as many eyes as
Argus, and that the men in whom I am interested cannot move far without
my knowledge. Shall I tell you what you dare not tell me? Shall I tell
you where you went, Messer Gianluca?

  GIANLUCA (_deceived and terrified_): Your highness knows. . . !

  VALENTINOIS: Of course I know. What are my spies employed for?

  GIANLUCA (_in a tone of explanation and apology_): But, then . . . you
must also know that Count Guido was my father’s friend. We owed him many
favours.

      [VALENTINOIS’ _surprise at the information thus trapped, shows a
   moment on his face, which is averted from_ GIANLUCA. _There is a
   sharp movement from_ SCIPIONE, _instantly restrained by_
   MACCHIAVELLI.

  VALENTINOIS: I am not quarrelling with your ill-timed visit to Count
Guido, nor yet with your friendship for him. My quarrel is with the
motives that led you to seek him—motives which may cost you dear,
Messer Gianluca.

  GIANLUCA (_in increasing terror_): My lord, I . . . I . . . took no
willing part in any of the measures concerted at Solignola.

      [_Again there is a flash of understanding on_ VALENTINOIS’ _face_.

  VALENTINOIS: You took no willing part, did you not? Do you expect me
to believe you?

  GIANLUCA: It is the truth, magnificent! I . . . I swear it before the
Throne of Heaven.

  VALENTINOIS: I require proofs, man; not oaths.

  GIANLUCA (_abjectly_): I . . . I have no means of proving what I say.

  VALENTINOIS: Indeed, you have, sir; and you’ll afford it me if you
would save your neck.

There is one proof you are overlooking. It is yours to use frankness
with me now. Thus you may convince me of your honesty: that you were
caught unawares in that net of treason. But you are careful to tell me
nothing. (_He adds on a sudden inspiration._) You do not even mention
. . . the lady who was lately with me.

      [GIANLUCA _recoils in fresh terror_.

  GIANLUCA: My lord . . . since you know so much, you will understand
the rest.

  VALENTINOIS: To be sure, I do. But my present concern is with you
personally, Ser Gianluca—to test your honesty.

  GIANLUCA (_plunging_): Is it not natural, highness, that being
determined upon resistance, Count Guido should have desired to place his
daughter in safety—to remove her from the dangers and discomforts of a
place besieged? In my having given her the shelter of my home is there
anything that reflects upon my loyalty to your highness?

  VALENTINOIS: Is this your honesty? Is this how you prove that you are
not my enemy?

  GIANLUCA: It is the truth, magnificent!

  VALENTINOIS: It is a lie, I say—a foolish lie.

  GIANLUCA (_indignation blending with fear_): Highness!

  VALENTINOIS: To pretend that Count Guido’s daughter, with all Italy
open to her, should come here for shelter, here to Assisi, here into my
very camp—a dove into the falconry—is to prove yourself a man of poor
invention. Your wits are numbed by your desperate need to find a cloak
for the true reason of her presence. (_Harshly_) You abuse my patience,
sir. You forget that I have the rack and the hoist at my command.

  GIANLUCA: The rack and the hoist! (_Indignantly_) For me, highness! I
am of patrician blood.

  VALENTINOIS: A fig for your patrician blood! Believe me, it sheds as
easily as any other. They’re shedding some of it—better blood than
yours—in the market-place at this moment. Orsini blood, my friend.
Shall I hesitate at yours?

  GIANLUCA: Neither rack nor hoist could extract another word from me. I
have no more to tell.

  VALENTINOIS: You have no more to tell me, eh? An ambiguous phrase,
sir. But I think I read its real meaning. We shall test it later.
Scipione, take Messer della Pieve, and place him under arrest until I
make known my pleasure.

  SCIPIONE (_to_ GIANLUCA): You hear, sir. Come.

      [GIANLUCA _hesitates a moment, then with a shrug resigns himself,
   and goes out by the main doors with_ SCIPIONE. _As the doors close_,
   VALENTINOIS _looks at_ MACHIAVELLI, _and laughs between amusement and
   bitterness_.

  VALENTINOIS: Well? Do I start at shadows, or is there a substance
behind them? That young man has told us something we were very far from
suspecting. Panthasilea degli Speranzoni is here in Assisi calling
herself Bianca Bracci of Spoleto. She thrusts herself upon my notice on
a trumped-up matter, as I suspect. Her real object is to enlist my
attention and ensnare my senses. Can you read that riddle?

  MACCHIAVELLI: It is extremely simple. She is the bait in the trap
that’s set for your highness.

  VALENTINOIS: That, sir, is what I’ve been telling you. The riddle is
the nature of the trap itself. Can you resolve it.

  MACCHIAVELLI: Can your highness?

  VALENTINOIS: Not yet, elusive Socrates. But I shall; and then . . .

  MACCHIAVELLI: Heaven help Panthasilea degli Speranzoni.

  VALENTINOIS: Ay! I think she’ll need the help of Heaven. (_Abruptly
thrusting the matter aside._) And now, my friend, touching the terms of
this treaty with your Florentine masters. . . .

      [_He flings himself into the chair at the table_, MACCHIAVELLI
   _standing beside it_.

                         THE CURTAIN IS LOWERED




                                SCENE II

    _The evening of the same day._

    _Having been lowered for a moment to mark the lapse of time, the
    curtain rises again upon the same scene. The table has been
    drawn down a little farther to the left and is set lengthwise up
    and down stage. The armchair is on the left of it; there are
    writing materials on this table, and a candlestick with a
    lighted candle on a tray. The latter and a couple of lanterns
    suspended from the ceiling supply the light of the chamber,
    which is subdued, leaving the gallery at the back in gloom. The
    door in the left flat stands open, and a glowing light
    occasionally increases and reddens to the accompaniment of the
    audible sighing of bellows. Shadows of men (off in this room on
    the left, which is being used as a torture chamber) flit across
    the light proceeding thence at the opening of the scene._

    AT RISE OF CURTAIN, AGABITO GHERARDI _is pacing up and down
    waiting. The door at the end of the gallery (off left) opens.
    This is conveyed by a beam of light along the gallery and a
    whiff of languid dance-music played in a distant part of the
    palace. The light is instantly cut off as the door is closed
    again._ CORELLA _has entered the gallery. He advances into view,
    and speaks as he comes down._

  CORELLA: Is everything ready, Messer Agabito?

  AGABITO (_surly_): Ready? (_He waves a hand towards the torture
chamber._) I’ve been waiting this half-hour.

  CORELLA: His highness is reluctant to leave the dance; as I am, and
with less cause. But he’ll be here directly. Where’s the prisoner?

  AGABITO: Messer Gianluca has been roused, and awaits the duke’s
pleasure in his cell.

  CORELLA: And meanwhile the duke’s pleasure lies elsewhere; and who
shall blame him? I grudge these moments stolen from the revels, and God
knows I’m no dancing pimp. Why the devil couldn’t this business have
waited until morning?

  AGABITO: It’s the duke’s way: always the unexpected. No one ever knows
what’s really in his mind. Not even I, his secretary, who know more than
most men.

  CORELLA: Hum! I could hazard a guess of what’s in his mind to-night.
Have you ever heard of Love, Messer Agabito?

  AGABITO (_disgusted_): Love! Pshaw! Don’t be a fool, Micheletto.

  CORELLA: Oh, to be sure, you’re half a priest; and so you think that
whilst God created man, the devil invented woman. According to some of
you the devil invented everything that’s pleasant. Well, thanks to him
we are very merry up there to-night.

  AGABITO: So I judge by the sounds.

  CORELLA: And the duke is merry—merriest of all. He’s fallen headlong
into the toils of an Assisian beauty . . . No; not Assisian. . . . She
is from Spoleto. Bianca Bracci is her name. A splendid woman. You should
see her, Master Secretary. She’d quicken your sluggish old pulses, warm
your coagulating old blood.

  AGABITO: Pshaw!

  CORELLA: She’s fired his highness.

  AGABITO: His highness?

  CORELLA: I’ve never seen him so beglamoured. Never. He placed her
beside him at supper, and sat as nearly in her lap as decency permitted.
Then he led her out to dance, as though she were the first lady in the
place. But I tell you she’s worthy of the honour. A magnificent woman,
Messer Agabito.

  AGABITO: Faugh!

  CORELLA: I believe you feed on parchments and sealing-wax, and your
veins are filled with ink. Why . . . who’s this?

      [_The main doors, down right, are opened by the_ SWISS _guarding
   them, who enters to admit_ SCIPIONE.

  SCIPIONE: Where’s his highness?

  CORELLA (_surprised_): Scipione! What the devil are you doing here?
Your place is in the lines under Solignola.

      [SCIPIONE _comes forward. Two guards with a pinioned clown between
   them now appear and follow him in._

  SCIPIONE: I have just come from there with this joker. (_Pointing to
clown._) Where’s the duke, I say?

      [VALENTINOIS _appears in the gallery. He is resplendent in a ball
   dress of white and gold (i.e., doublet of cloth of gold, edged with
   ermine, and either white hose or hose that is striped white and
   yellow); he wears his collar of St. Michael, a jewelled girdle, and
   there are tiny jewels in the network that confines his hair; there is
   also a large jewel—a long pearl—in his left ear; he is bareheaded.
   A pomander ball of filigree gold, and of the size of a small orange,
   dangles by a fine gold chain from his left wrist. Mainly he holds it
   in his hand, and makes play with it to his nostrils throughout the
   scene._

  VALENTINOIS: I am here. What is it?

  SCIPIONE: Highness, I have brought you this clown, caught in the act
of slipping through the lines of Solignola. He carries this letter; but
he refuses to say who sent him, or to give us any satisfaction whatever.

      [_The music off dies down and ceases; the door being still open._

  VALENTINOIS: If he has a letter. . . . That should tell us.

  SCIPIONE: But it is in cipher, magnificent.

  VALENTINOIS: Give it to me.

      [_He takes the letter from_ SCIPIONE, _considers it a moment by
   the light of the candle on the table_.

  VALENTINOIS: Feminine characters, I should judge.

      [_He bears it to his nostrils and sniffs it._

  VALENTINOIS: I’ve breathed that perfume before . . . and very lately.

      [_Sudden suspicion lights his face. He cons the document again;
   then turns to the prisoner, speaking quietly._

  VALENTINOIS: At what hour did the Countess Panthasilea degli
Speranzoni dispatch you to Solignola with this letter?

      [GINO (_the clown_) _falls back thunderstruck. He stares a long
   moment at the duke, then cries out in a quavering voice._

  GINO: Men speak the truth of you!

  VALENTINOIS: Rarely, my friend; believe me; very rarely. What
particular truth have you been hearing?

  GINO: That you have made a compact with the devil.

  VALENTINOIS: It’s as true as most things that are said of me. (_To
Corella._) Take this poor clown away, Micheletto, and let him be
confined in solitude.

      [_He waves the guards away. They thrust_ GINO _out_, CORELLA
   _following them, and closing the door_.

      [VALENTINOIS _beckons_ AGABITO.

  VALENTINOIS: No need to waste time on him, when the letter will tell
us all we want to know. Transcribe it for me, Agabito.

      [AGABITO _sits down, takes the letter, and stares at it_.

  AGABITO: But the cipher, highness?

  VALENTINOIS: The key has been obligingly supplied. Study that
signature. It contains eleven numerals. The second, sixth and last are
all the same. So also are the second, sixth and last of the eleven
letters of the name Panthasilea. Assume it to be that, and see what
comes of it. It supplies you half the alphabet.

      [AGABITO _stares a moment, then takes up his pen, and gets quickly
   to work_. VALENTINOIS _turns to_ SCIPIONE.

  VALENTINOIS: Where have they bestowed Ramirez?

  SCIPIONE: Ramirez! He is above stairs, highness.

  VALENTINOIS: I shall want him presently, and I shall also want his
sword. It is in my closet. Go fetch them both.

  SCIPIONE (_eagerly_): With submission, highness, dare I hope that you
mean to deal mercifully with him?

  VALENTINOIS: Have you ever known me merciful to insubordination?

      [CORELLA _re-enters_.

  SCIPIONE: Ramirez has the faults that go with his virtues, highness
. . .

  VALENTINOIS (_sharply_): Enough! About it!

      [SCIPIONE _bows hurriedly, and goes out by the gallery_.
   VALENTINOIS _turns to_ CORELLA.

  VALENTINOIS: This prisoner della Pieve? Where is he?

  CORELLA: In his cell. Ready whenever your highness pleases.

  VALENTINOIS: Fetch him.

      [CORELLA _goes out_.

  VALENTINOIS: Well, Agabito? Is it done?

      [AGABITO _rises, holding a written sheet from which he reads_.

  AGABITO: “I engaged his attention at last this morning, and I am
bidden to a masque he is holding to-night. A promising beginning. Within
a week I count upon an opportunity to carry out my aims. Let this
enhearten you to do your part. PANTHASILEA.”

      [VALENTINOIS _takes the sheet in his own hand, and cons it,
   reading on a musing inflexion_.

  VALENTINOIS: “I count upon an opportunity to carry out my aims” . . .
My aims? “All is ready . . .” Ready? (_Hearing steps off._) Here comes
Messer Gianluca. You have your instructions?

  AGABITO (_tapping papers on the desk_): They are here, magnificent.

  VALENTINOIS: To it, then. Examine him, as if I were not present.

      [_He goes up into the shadows of the gallery._ AGABITO _resumes
   his seat_.

      [_The door opens, and_ CORELLA _appears on the threshold_.

  CORELLA: The prisoner is here, sir.

  AGABITO: Let him enter. And do you, Captain, place guards at the end
of the gallery and suffer no one to pass.

      [CORELLA _steps aside_. GIANLUCA _comes into view (from the right)
   between guards in the Borgia livery. He is wrapped in a cloak, his
   countenance is pale and wide-eyed with fear._ AGABITO _claps his
   hands and_ TWO EXECUTIONERS _enter from doorway left. They are brawny
   men, in skin-tight garments, like wrestlers, the torso cased in
   leather, the arms bare from the shoulder. They receive_ GIANLUCA
   _from his guards, who withdraw_. CORELLA _goes up and out by gallery.
   Dance music, tripping and trivial, strikes up in the distance just
   before the door is opened by the departing_ CORELLA _and is heard,
   though muffled now, after it has closed. The_ EXECUTIONERS _drag_
   GIANLUCA _forward, visibly shrinking in horror of them. They pull off
   and cast away his cloak. From the waist upward he remains clad only
   in his shirt. They stand him immediately opposite to_ AGABITO, _and
   themselves fall back a little_. GIANLUCA _has not seen_ VALENTINOIS,
   _who should be as nearly as possible invisible_.

  GIANLUCA: What do you want with me?

      [AGABITO’S _voice is cold and dispassionate_.

  AGABITO: Messer Gianluca della Pieve, you are guilty of plotting with
Count Guido degli Speranzoni, Tyrant of Solignola, against the High and
Mighty Lord Cesare Borgia, Duke of Valentinois and Romagna, Prince of
Andria and Venafri; and of having prepared here in Assisi a pitfall for
this same high and mighty lord. Thereby you have deserved death. But
worse than death have you deserved when it is considered that his
highness is Gonfalonier of Holy Church, that the battles he fights are
the battles of the Holy See. Thus you offend not only against the Duke’s
Magnificence, but against God and His earthly Vicar, Our Holy Father,
the Pope. Yet since the Church in her infinite mercy has said “Nolo
mortem peccatoris, sed ut magis convertatur et vivat,” his Highness, in
our Holy Father’s name, desires to spare you, so that you make frank and
full confession of your offence.

  GIANLUCA: I have nothing to confess.

  AGABITO: Look yonder, and assure yourself that we do not lack the
means to unseal your lips if you prove obstinate. We have at our command
cord and fire and water. Be sure that when we cannot twist out truth, we
can burn it out or flood it out.

  GIANLUCA: You have not the right. It is not lawful. I am a patrician;
by my birth and blood immune from torture.

  AGABITO: Had you offended merely against an earthly potentate, that
plea might avail you. It cannot avail you here. So be reasonable, and
confess.

  GIANLUCA (_obstinately_): I have nothing to confess.

      [AGABITO _sighs heavily. His voice is sad._

  AGABITO: Executioners, do your office. First, the hoist.

      [_The_ EXECUTIONERS _seize_ GIANLUCA. _One of them twists the
   patient’s wrists behind him, the other pinions them._

  GIANLUCA (_in a moan_): No . . . No.

      [VALENTINOIS _emerges into view_.

  VALENTINOIS: Wait!

      [_He waves the_ EXECUTIONERS _away. They fall back, leaving him
   alone with_ GIANLUCA _in midstage_.

      [GIANLUCA, _amazed by his sudden appearance, stares at him in
   terrified fascination_. VALENTINOIS’ _face is sad, his eyes pitiful,
   his voice very soft and persuasive_.

  VALENTINOIS: Messer Gianluca, consider what you do. Consider what is
before you. You may have seen the hoist at work; you have perhaps seen
it wrench a man’s arms from their sockets. (_He places a hand on_
GIANLUCA’S _shoulder, and tightens its grip._)

      [GIANLUCA _winces, writhes and cries out in pain_.

  VALENTINOIS: Consider by that how little you are fitted to endure the
cord. Be assured that you will speak in the end. And when you have
spoken, what do you think must follow? Once the hoist has gripped you,
you become the property of the law, and when the law has made you speak,
the law will silence you forever. From the agonies of a broken body,
your release lies through the strangler’s hands.

      [GIANLUCA, _shaking off the spell of the other’s persuasiveness,
   his voice strident_.

  GIANLUCA: I . . . I have nothing to tell you. Your arts cannot conquer
me.

  VALENTINOIS: They are very compassionate arts, compassionately
employed. I admonish you to confess, so that you may be forgiven, so
that you may spare that fair body from being broken and destroyed. Judge
whether I admonish you in any interests but your own, when I tell you
that you can confess nothing—nothing material—that is not already
known to me.

  GIANLUCA (_with a laugh, half-hysterical, half-ironic_): Is it because
all is known to you that you are at such pains to make me speak?

      [VALENTINOIS _moves away; he speaks frostily, indifferently, the
   pomander to his nostrils_.

  VALENTINOIS: I see that I must leave you to the tormentors. I have no
time to waste in convincing you, for Madonna Panthasilea awaits me
impatiently above stairs. She waits for me with smiles of allurement
that might be very dangerous did I not know them false and treacherous
as the false name of Bianca Bracci by which she calls herself. Her net
is spread, and richly baited with her own luscious beauty; and she waits
confident of her haul; so confident that already this evening has she
written to her father—the scoundrel father who has committed her to
this vileness—that within a week her work will be complete.

      [_He looks at_ GIANLUCA, _who is gaping awe-stricken. He laughs._

  VALENTINOIS: You see? Do you still think that you can discover
anything that will harm your friends? Do you still doubt that I am other
than compassionate when I admonish you to have pity on yourself?

  GIANLUCA: But what is there left to tell? Already you appear to know
more than I do.

  VALENTINOIS: There is one little thing you can discover for me. The
precise nature of this snare that has been set. Tell me that, and you
shall have your life and immunity from this.

  GIANLUCA: I cannot. You shall have no evidence from me that you can
use to this lady’s hurt.

      [_In the passionate tone_, VALENTINOIS _detects_ GIANLUCA’S _true
   feeling for the lady. His understanding is reflected on his face. He
   pauses a moment, then speaks quietly again._

  VALENTINOIS: To her hurt? Haven’t I evidence enough already? If you
would serve her, you will answer me, for if you don’t I may have to
place her where you now stand.

  GIANLUCA (_in horror_): What?

  VALENTINOIS: Unless I know enough to avoid the trap, I must take
measures to protect myself. The first of these will be to have Monna
Panthasilea strangled.

  GIANLUCA: Oh-h!

  VALENTINOIS: What else? Am I unreasonable to value my own life more
than I value hers?

  GIANLUCA: Your life? Your life is not aimed at!

  VALENTINOIS: So, so! I thought there was more than murder here. What,
then? Answer me if you would save yourself and her.

  GIANLUCA (_after a pause_): Oh, God pity me! I can’t!

      [VALENTINOIS _considers him a moment_.

  VALENTINOIS: Very well. Then I will send for her. (_To the_
EXECUTIONERS.) Loosen his bonds. Restore him his cloak.

      [_He is obeyed, to_ GIANLUCA’S _increasing bewilderment_.

  VALENTINOIS: When she comes I will confront her with you, her accuser
and betrayer.

  GIANLUCA: You fiend! You—a prince, a great conqueror—and you’d stoop
to that vile lie.

  VALENTINOIS: It is the truth.

  GIANLUCA: The truth.

  VALENTINOIS: The truth, you fool. It was you who first betrayed her
identity to me this morning when I questioned you. It was you who
disclosed to me this plot, of which until then I had not dreamed.

  GIANLUCA (_in agony_): O God! You tricked me.

  VALENTINOIS: Will she believe that? Will she believe that coming
straight from quarrelling with her, it was by accident that you betrayed
her?

  GIANLUCA: You devil! Do your worst! I will say nothing further to her
hurt.

  VALENTINOIS: To her hurt? It is your silence that will hurt her. Come,
come, Messer Gianluca, will you speak now or will you wait until you see
her stretched upon the rack?

  GIANLUCA: The rack! For her! You cannot! You dare not!

  VALENTINOIS: Dare not! (_To_ AGABITO.) Tell Micheletto to bring Monna
Panthasilea . . . Monna Bianca Bracci here.

      [AGABITO _moves to obey_.

  GIANLUCA (_in frenzy_): Oh, God help me! Wait! Wait! I’ll . . . I’ll
. . .

  VALENTINOIS: My patience is running out.

  GIANLUCA (_headlong_): I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you.

  VALENTINOIS: Speak, then!

  GIANLUCA: The aim of the plot is to take you alive, and carry you to
Petrucci at Siena, there to hold you as a hostage whilst extracting
terms from the Pope.

  VALENTINOIS: Aha! And how is this to be accomplished?

  GIANLUCA: I don’t know. That was a matter to be determined by Monna
Panthasilea as the opportunity should serve her.

      [VALENTINOIS _looks steadily into his face, and nods at last_.

  VALENTINOIS: What assistance has she here in Assisi?

  GIANLUCA: I don’t know. She depended upon me. But I rebelled against
her using herself in this unworthy way. It was on that we quarrelled,
and I swore to hold aloof.

  VALENTINOIS: So that she will not find your absence strange. Hum! (_He
turns abruptly, claps his hands and calls._) Micheletto!

      [_The door at the end of the gallery opens, and_ CORELLA
   _advances; the music swells up in the closing strains of the dance,
   and presently ceases altogether_.

  VALENTINOIS: Take Messer Gianluca della Pieve back to his prison. See
that he is closely guarded.

      [MICHELETTO _opens doors of main entrance; at a sign from him the
   guards re-enter_. GIANLUCA _staggers up, a man overwrought_.

  GIANLUCA: What are you going to do to her?

  VALENTINOIS: What! Ah! Opportunity shall prompt me.

  GIANLUCA: You’ll not harm her!

  VALENTINOIS: For the evil she intends me, she shall receive good in
return.

  GIANLUCA: Good!

  VALENTINOIS: Is not justice good? And she shall have that, I promise
you. Strict justice. Neither more nor less.

  GIANLUCA (_writhing in the grip of his guards_): You devil! You
mocking, remorseless devil! You’ll not dare to harm her! You devil . . .
you . . .

      [_Still ranting, he is thrust out by the guards_, CORELLA
   _following, and the door is closed_.

      [_The_ EXECUTIONERS _take themselves off by the doorway left_.

  VALENTINOIS (_to Agabito_): You can go, Agabito. Your work is done for
to-night. But leave me that letter, and the transcript. (_He takes it
from Agabito._)

  AGABITO (_affably, as he departs_): A happy night, magnificent.

  VALENTINOIS: Good-night! Good-night!

      [AGABITO _goes up_.

  VALENTINOIS: Bid Scipione bring Ramirez. But do not yet remove the
guard from the gallery door.

      [AGABITO _goes off by gallery_. VALENTINOIS _sits conning the
   paper_.

  VALENTINOIS (_reading_): ‘All is ready’ . . . ‘My aims.’ My aims. What
aims?

      [SCIPIONE _enters, carrying_ RAMIREZ’ _sword in the crook of his
   arm_. RAMIREZ _follows him. Stepping forward, the latter puts out his
   hands appealingly._

  RAMIREZ: My lord, I am an unworthy fool, but . . .

  VALENTINOIS (_forbiddingly_): Wait! (_To_ SCIPIONE.) Set that sword on
the table, there. (VALENTINOIS _folds the letter into its original
creases._) Here, Scipione. It’s a plain seal. See it mended, and then
have the letter conveyed into Solignola and delivered to Count Guido.
Let one of your own men take it, disguising himself as a clown. And mark
this: you are to capture no more messengers at present.

  SCIPIONE: I am to allow letters to pass into Solignola?

  VALENTINOIS: Freely and unchallenged. Such messages as they receive
are likely to lull their vigilance, and we shall find it easier to
complete the mine without interference. I shall ride over in the morning
with Micheletto, and give you clear instructions about the excavations,
and also about mounting batteries elsewhere as a blind upon our real
aim. You may go.

  SCIPIONE (_bowing_): Highness!

      [_He goes out, after an intrigued and sympathetic glance in the
   direction of the waiting_ RAMIREZ. VALENTINOIS _sits down at the
   table. As the door closes, he takes up the sword, and looks at_
   RAMIREZ.

  VALENTINOIS: Well, Ramirez? You had something to say to me, I think.

  RAMIREZ: Only to plead with your highness. I admit my fault. I am a
hot-blooded, quick-tempered scoundrel, and I deserve your anger. But I
urge my tried loyalty as a plea for more merciful punishment than
dismissal from your service.

  VALENTINOIS: You find it harsh?

  RAMIREZ: Almost as harsh and dishonouring as the epithet your highness
cast at me. To call me “dog”—and publicly! I am a soldier, scarred in
your service and of proven excellence as a leader . . .

  VALENTINOIS: And of an equally proven fidelity to me. Am I a fool,
Ramirez, or are you?

  RAMIREZ: Your highness means?

  VALENTINOIS: I have not many servants like you, Ramirez; hardly
another whom I esteem so highly; certainly no other whom I trust more
fully. To dismiss you for a trivial fault, I must be a fool. To believe
that I could mean it, you must be a fool.

  RAMIREZ: I don’t understand.

  VALENTINOIS: Dullard! I dismissed you publicly in the terms I
employed, for the belief of others, not your own. If I called you “dog”
in public, I call you “friend” in private. It was necessary for the
service I require of you.

      [_He holds out the sword to_ RAMIREZ. RAMIREZ _bounds forward to
   take it_.

  RAMIREZ: Highness!

  VALENTINOIS: Listen. There is a plot here in Assisi, which aims at my
liberty, possibly at my life. Go forth now, breathing vengeance, a man
bitterly wronged, dismissed before witnesses, harshly and with infamy.
Denounce me publicly in terms as infamous. Proclaim me a thief, a liar,
a murderer, what you will. But let yourself be freely heard. Announce it
as your aim, henceforth, to avenge the affront I put upon you. Make big
talk of your impugned Castilian honour. You will not have long to wait
before your hate is offered employment. You will be just the tool for
treacherous hands. You understand?

  RAMIREZ: Completely. I am your man, my lord.

  VALENTINOIS: Good! About it, then, my friend.

  RAMIREZ: The taverns of Assisi shall ring to-night with your
highness’s misdeeds.

  VALENTINOIS: Excellent! The ambassadors of the Most Serene Republic
will imagine themselves back in Venice.

  RAMIREZ: Oh, if I had but known . . .

  VALENTINOIS: Your instincts should have told you. Call Micheletto, as
you go. God be with you!

      [RAMIREZ _opens the door and calls_.

  RAMIREZ: Micheletto! To the duke!

      [CORELLA _appears on the threshold_.

  VALENTINOIS: Let Diego Ramirez go. He is free.

  CORELLA (_eagerly_): Your highness has . . .

  VALENTINOIS (_forbiddingly_): He is free. That is all.

      [RAMIREZ _goes out_.

  VALENTINOIS: You may go. Remove the guards from the end of the
gallery. Let my guests roam at will.

      [CORELLA _departs by the gallery, leaving the door open.
   Dance-music begins again in the distance._

      [VALENTINOIS _sits a moment silently meditative. Then he takes up
   the transcript of the letter, scans it, and reads it aloud._

  VALENTINOIS: “Within a week I count upon an opportunity to carry out
my aims.” Within a week! Ha!

      [_He holds the sheet in the flame of one of the candles, whereby
   it is consumed. As it burns the voices of several men and women, gay
   and laughing, are heard off left. Presently one voice emerges clearly
   from the confused aggregate of sound._

  PANTHASILEA (_off_): Where do you say that the duke hides himself?

      [VALENTINOIS _raises his head sharply, his eyes gleam_. CORELLA’S
   _voice is heard vaguely answering_.

  CORELLA (_off_): He is in the ante-chamber.

      [_A moment later_ PANTHASILEA _with_ SINIBALDI _and_ REMOLINO
   _enter along the gallery_. PANTHASILEA’S _manner is gay, laughter
   vibrates through her words. Gorgeously dressed, a mask hangs from her
   wrist._

  PANTHASILEA: Here is his highness! Fled to shelter from the chatter of
his guests.

  VALENTINOIS (_rising_): The rebuke is merited, madonna. I am an
indifferent host.

  PANTHASILEA: Oh, worse—far worse—an insensible one. Your
magnificence fled the dance with which you had engaged yourself to
honour me.

  VALENTINOIS: But how reluctantly! Driven by the merciless duties of my
office.

      [_She comes down, her companions following. Looking through the
   doorway on the left, and perceiving the nature of the place, she
   checks and shudders. She speaks in a voice laden with horror._

  PANTHASILEA: Your duties brought you here!

  VALENTINOIS: Yes. But those engines were not concerned in it. I merely
came to a council with my officers on the means for reducing Solignola.

  PANTHASILEA: They tell me that it is a very strong place. Does your
highness look to reduce it soon?

  VALENTINOIS: Within ten days at most. Within a week if I am fortunate.
Oh, yes—“within a week I count upon an opportunity to carry out my
aims.”

      [_The phrase touches a memory in_ PANTHASILEA’S _mind. Her eyes
   dilate._

  SINIBALDI: That were a speedy solution, indeed, highness.

  VALENTINOIS (_laughing, carelessly_): Pooh! I am not concerned to make
it speedier. That is all. Although his Holiness is clamouring for my
return to Rome, I can no longer be in haste to go. (_He looks intently
at_ PANTHASILEA.) I have found too much to attract and hold me here in
Assisi.

      [_He bows to her. She laughs nervously._

  PANTHASILEA: Remembering how you fled the dance. I cannot suspect that
the attraction is supplied by any of your guests.

  VALENTINOIS: It is your pleasure to be cruel. I have pleaded my
excuse. Show me that I am forgiven by suffering me to make amends. The
music calls us, Monna Bianca. Shall we go?

  PANTHASILEA: With all my heart. (_Glancing left again._) I am chilled
with horror here.

      [_He takes her hand to lead her out, signing to the others to
   precede him._ SINIBALDI _and_ REMOLINO _go up_. _He follows with her;
   then, checks to answer._

  VALENTINOIS: I should have spared you that. It is a sight for felons
only—specially for those unspeakable creatures who by betrayal and
falsehood burrow to their ends. It is haunted by the anguish to which
their treachery brought them in the end. Ah! it makes you shudder! Well
it may. Come, Monna Bianca. Let us find a setting more proper for the
rare jewel of your beauty.

      [_He bows low over her hand, bearing it towards his lips. She
   withdraws it, crying out in protest._

  PANTHASILEA: Highness! Too great an honour!

  VALENTINOIS: An honour I must pay this lovely hand, even though I
perceived it to carry death for me.

      [_As bending again he kisses it, she looks straight before her in
   sheer terror._

      [_From the gallery_, SINIBALDI _looks on slyly exultant_, CARDINAL
   REMOLINO _smiling indulgently_.

                       THE CURTAIN SLOWLY FALLS.




  ACT III




                                ACT III


    _A Room in the Pieve Palace at Assisi._

    _A nobly proportioned room, the walls tapestried, the ceiling
    frescoed, the floor paved in black and white marbles._

    _In the back flat three glass doors open upon a balustraded
    terrace. Three steps from the stage level lead up to these
    doors. Beyond the balustrade we see a moonlit garden, dimly
    figured on the back cloth, with spear-like cypresses standing
    black against the faintly luminous sky._

    _There are four sets of twin pillars at the back, two of these
    being placed between the windows, the other two flanking them. A
    rod crosses these pillars near their capitals, carrying leather
    curtains which are gilded, and tinted in dull reds and blues._

    _There are double doors in the right flat; about midway up and
    above them, this flat sets on an angle to the back, with a small
    single door in it. This is the door to_ PANTHASILEA’S _bedroom._

    _There is a large, projecting fireplace with a broad overmantel
    low down on the left. Below this stands an armchair. Raked
    across stage, just above the fireplace, there is a long settle
    of carved wood, with leather cushions. Above this settle stands
    a wooden lectern on which an open volume—an illuminated
    manuscript. A little to the right of midstage there is a fairly
    substantial table, at which are placed two armchairs, all of
    carved and gilded wood, the chairs being upholstered in wrought
    and tinted leather. On this table a gold salver, bearing a gold
    beaker, and three tall venetian glasses._

    _A candlebranch of gold carrying six lighted candles is placed
    upon the broad overmantel. From this the room is suffused with
    golden light, which contrasts with the cold moonlight outside._

    AT RISE OF CURTAIN _the middle window stands open to the
    terrace_.

    GIULIA _is alone, lounging on the settle_.

    _Immediately the doors R. are opened by_ GIOVANNI, _who enters_.

    GIULIA _swings her feet to the ground, and sits up_.

  GIULIA: What is it, Giovanni?

  GIOVANNI: Prince Sinibaldi is here, Monna Giulia, craving audience of
madonna.

  GIULIA (_rising_): Madonna is in her room. But admit his excellency. I
will call her.

      [GIOVANNI _bows, and holding the doors open ushers_ SINIBALDI,
   _then withdraws_.

  GIOVANNI: This way, excellency.

      [SINIBALDI _comes in quickly. He is wrapped in a cloak and he
   carries a broad round hat. These he casts aside as he advances._

  SINIBALDI: Monna Panthasilea . . . Where is she?

  GIULIA: Sh! My lord! That name is never mentioned here. Monna Bianca
is in her room. I will call her.

  SINIBALDI: Pray do.

      [_As she is turning again_, SINIBALDI’S _voice arrests her_.

  SINIBALDI: Stay, Monna Giulia! Tell me: What is it that has miscarried
in our plans?

  GIULIA (_at a loss_): Miscarried, excellency?

  SINIBALDI: Why have the duke’s visits ceased abruptly? For two
days—yesterday and to-day—he has not been near your lady. Does he
. . . does he suspect?

  GIULIA: How does your excellency know that he has not been?

  SINIBALDI: How do I know? Just as I know—just as all Assisi
knows—that for four days he was assiduous in his visits. For two hours
and more each afternoon the street was blocked by his waiting escort.

  GIULIA (_laughing_): That is why.

  SINIBALDI: That is why? Why what?

  GIULIA: By his devotion he was rendering madonna the talk of all
Assisi. For her reputation’s sake she desired him to practise more
discretion.

  SINIBALDI: Discretion! Surely this is not a time for prudish qualms!

      [PANTHASILEA _enters from her bedroom, of which a glimpse is
   obtained as the door opens_.

  GIULIA: Here comes madonna herself.

      [SINIBALDI _swings round_. PANTHASILEA _advances into the room;
   then pauses, considering him_.

  PANTHASILEA: Prince Sinibaldi! Is this wise? If you were seen entering
my house . . .

  SINIBALDI: What then? It is known that I am acquainted with Monna
Bianca Bracci of Spoleto. Have we not danced together at the Communal?
How, then, is it strange that like the Lord Cesare Borgia, I should come
to pay my homage to the fairest lady in Assisi?

  PANTHASILEA (_advancing and speaking coldly_): Is that all that brings
you?

  SINIBALDI: I would it were. I come in apprehension—to inquire why
Valentino’s visits have ceased at such a moment.

      [PANTHASILEA’S _manner is chill and aloof. She is a woman moving
   now mechanically in a task that has become repellent. Her distaste
   for_ SINIBALDI _is manifest, and merely held in check by her
   appreciation of his position and her own_.

  PANTHASILEA: Have they ceased?

  SINIBALDI: For two days—yesterday and to-day—he has not been here,
and I understand from Monna Giulia that this is by your own desire.

  PANTHASILEA: Naturally. It was not possible for me to have Valentino
seized whilst his escort was at my door.

      [SINIBALDI _is momentarily nonplussed_.

  PANTHASILEA: A cup of wine, Lord Prince?

  SINIBALDI (_starting out of his brooding_): Wine? No. No wine, I thank
you. Madonna, I do not understand.

  PANTHASILEA: So you presume to question. I shall be glad to know your
right.

  SINIBALDI: No, no. I am not here to question, but to warn. And now, it
seems, I am too late.

  PANTHASILEA: To warn, do you say?

  SINIBALDI: I have just received word from a sure source that the final
assault upon Solignola will be delivered at any moment now.

      [_There is a movement of dismay from_ PANTHASILEA. _She stands
   stricken and bemused whilst_ SINIBALDI _continues_:

  SINIBALDI: Once that is done, Valentino will depart for Rome, and
there is an end to this fine opportunity.

  PANTHASILEA (_commanding herself_): True. But why assume that already
it is too late?

  SINIBALDI: If already Valentino should have paid you his last visit
. . .

  PANTHASILEA: He has not. He will be here soon.

  SINIBALDI (_startled_): Eh?

  PANTHASILEA: I expect him at the second hour of night.

  SINIBALDI (_amazed_): What? You have given him an assignation? Here?

  PANTHASILEA: How else was it to be contrived? Now you understand why I
bade him visit me no more, on the ground that his escort waiting in the
street was destructive of my reputation.

  SINIBALDI: Yes, yes! And so?

  PANTHASILEA: And so, desiring neither to render me a subject for
scandal, nor yet to forgo his visits, he did as I expected—he begged
the key of the garden gate that he might come in secret and alone.

  SINIBALDI: By Heaven! But that was shrewdly played, madonna!

      [PANTHASILEA _turns to_ GIULIA.

  PANTHASILEA: Bid them send Santafiora to me here at once.

      [GIULIA _nods, and goes out_.

  PANTHASILEA: I am glad your excellency approves me.

  SINIBALDI: Approve you? I am lost in wonder. You . . . you have no
doubt. . . . You . . . are sure that he will come?

  PANTHASILEA: Oh, yes. He came last night; and he will come again.

  SINIBALDI: He came last night, do you say?

  PANTHASILEA: I said so. Yes. (_Half defiantly._)

  SINIBALDI (_between amazement and anger_): He came last night, and you
allowed him to depart again?

      [_She is silent, hanging her head a little. His indignation rises,
   fanned by suspicion._

  SINIBALDI: What does it mean? Can that squeamish fool Gianluca have
been pestering you again?

  PANTHASILEA: Gianluca? Gianluca is sulking. I have not seen him since
I dismissed him a week ago.

  SINIBALDI: But then . . . ?

  PANTHASILEA (_a little lamely_): My preparations were not quite
complete. I . . . I could not risk a failure.

  SINIBALDI (_anxiously_): And to-night?

  PANTHASILEA: All is ready.

  SINIBALDI: If you need help . . .

  PANTHASILEA: I have men enough. Besides, he trusts me so completely;
he is so utterly without suspicion. . . .

  SINIBALDI: You are sure? You are quite sure?

  PANTHASILEA: Would he come in secret and alone if he were not?

  SINIBALDI: No. I suppose not. And yet . . . he is subtle as all the
fiends.

  PANTHASILEA: This time his subtleties are blunted. (_She stifles a
sigh._) Before morning he will be on his way to Siena, a helpless
captive.

  SINIBALDI: Eh? I marvel that you will still trouble to send him to
Siena.

  PANTHASILEA: Is not that what was concerted?

  SINIBALDI: Yes; but at a time when there was no thought for such
circumstances as you have so cleverly contrived. This alters everything.
He comes in secret and alone—in secret and alone! When he fails to
return, none will know what has become of him. None will even know
whether he is alive or dead. He will have vanished, leaving no trace.
Why trouble, then, to send him to Siena?

  PANTHASILEA: What else?

  SINIBALDI: What else? Is it not plain?

      [_He ceases abruptly as the door opens._

      [SANTAFIORA _comes in. He is armed and wears a peaked cap of
   steel._

  SANTAFIORA: You sent for me, madonna. (_He perceives_ SINIBALDI, _and
bows formally._) Lord Prince.

      [SINIBALDI _returns the bow_.

  PANTHASILEA: Ah, Santafiora! Is all ready?

  SANTAFIORA: Whenever your ladyship pleases. The moment this fish is
safely in I can cast the net. It will be better to take him as he
leaves. It would be best of all in here. . .

  PANTHASILEA (_shrinking_): No, no!

      [SANTAFIORA _shrugs and bows his acquiescence. She continues._

  PANTHASILEA: At least not if it can be avoided. Post your men in the
garden. Await him there—unless I should meanwhile call you.

  SANTAFIORA: Very well, madonna. I shall be near at hand.

  PANTHASILEA: And you will remember that he is to be taken alive?

  SANTAFIORA: Of course. But this duke is a man of his hands. He has the
strength of any other three.

  PANTHASILEA: That is why there are six of you to do this thing.

  SANTAFIORA: True. But if he gives trouble, if he should kill a man or
two before we make him fast, I cannot answer for the temper of my
fellows.

  SINIBALDI: Of course not.

  PANTHASILEA: I tell you, Santafiora, he must be taken alive. Alive he
is worth a thousand times as much as dead. You understand?

  SANTAFIORA: Madonna, you may depend upon me to deliver him to
you—alive if possible.

  SINIBALDI: I will pray Heaven that it may not be possible. Thus,
considering what a man is Valentino, believe me it will prove best in
the end.

  PANTHASILEA (_faintly scornful_): For Venice, no doubt; but not for
Solignola.

      [GIULIA _comes in by the double doors_.

      [PANTHASILEA _turns to her questioning_.

  GIULIA: Madonna, it is close upon the second hour of night. I thought
his excellency . . .

  SINIBALDI (_starting_): You are right, by Heaven!

      [_He turns to take his leave of_ PANTHASILEA, _but she has swung
   to_ SANTAFIORA.

  PANTHASILEA: To your post, Santafiora! Away with you!

  SANTAFIORA: I go, madonna.

      [_He bows and goes towards the door._

  PANTHASILEA: And you too, Lord Prince. You were best away.

      [SANTAFIORA _pauses at the door, waiting for_ SINIBALDI.

  SINIBALDI: Madonna, I take my leave, rejoicing. When it is done send
me word.

      [_He takes her hand, and bears it to his lips._

      [_She stands as if frozen._

      [_He considers her an instant in silence, then speaks his sudden
   doubt._

  SINIBALDI: You . . . you are not afraid?

  PANTHASILEA: Afraid? Santafiora is waiting, Lord Prince.

      [_He accepts the rebuke, and bows._

      [_She inclines her head in response, and crosses to the settle,
   whilst_ SINIBALDI _goes out with_ SANTAFIORA.

  PANTHASILEA: Shut out that dismal moonlight, Giulia.—But do not latch
the window.

      [GIULIA _goes up, closes the middle window, and draws the curtains
   across all three_. PANTHASILEA, _meanwhile dejectedly seats herself,
   staring into the fire_.

      [_Having drawn the curtains_, GIULIA _comes down behind_
   PANTHASILEA _and stands considering her a moment_.

  GIULIA (_fondly_): Madonna!

      [PANTHASILEA _looks up at her, and attempts to smile her gratitude
   for this solicitude. She raises a hand to pat_ GIULIA’S. GIULIA
   _takes it in both her own_.

  GIULIA: How cold you are!

  PANTHASILEA: Cold—ay! Cold and sick. I begin to see that Gianluca was
right; that this is a loathly Judas-trick.

  GIULIA: It was a Judas-trick that lured Pietro Varano to his end.

  PANTHASILEA (_stiffening_): I know. That is what I tell myself when I
feel my courage melting. Because of that I shall carry this thing
through. But I think I shall hate myself for ever after.

  GIULIA: Yet many will love and bless you for it, madonna. Dwell on
that.

  PANTHASILEA: O God, help me! All that I can dwell on is his trust in
me. He comes here so confidingly, so full of tender homage, so
unsuspicious of the knife to which he bares his throat.

  GIULIA: How often has he not lured others so?

  PANTHASILEA: Do you know that sometimes I ask myself if that be true?
When he talks, when he tells me of his dreams and aims, when he reveals
the vileness of those upon whom he has made war, I begin to doubt the
evil that is said of him by such men as . . . Sinibaldi. (_Scornfully._)
Sinibaldi! A creature steeped in treachery, sly, faithless, cruel,
cynically using us, as he uses all men, to his own ends.

  GIULIA: But surely, madonna, it is too well known that this Duke
Valentino . . .

  PANTHASILEA: Because a thing is well known, it does not follow that it
is true. Consider, Giulia. We were led to believe this duke an odious
monster. From what is said of him we had looked to find some horror of a
man, malformed, prematurely aged and ravaged by disease and the wrath of
Heaven. Instead . . . (_She shrugs and makes a little gesture of scorn
and helplessness._)

  GIULIA (_sighing_): Ah yes! He is beautiful. No woman could deny that.
But his beauty is from the devil. He is wicked and cruel, and he
prevails by evil arts.

  PANTHASILEA: Pshaw!

  GIULIA: Do not sneer, madonna. Take heed, lest he bewitch you.

      [_Two strokes of a deep-toned bell._

      [PANTHASILEA _starts_.

  PANTHASILEA: It is the second hour of night. Soon he will be here.
Leave me, Giulia.

  GIULIA: Remember Pietro Varano, dear madonna. Remember Solignola,
which depends upon you, and which will be lost if you should weaken.

  PANTHASILEA: Weaken? Why, what matter now even if I should? Once he is
here, the matter is accomplished. Sh! I hear his step.

      [_She rises, and with_ GIULIA _turns to face the curtained
   windows. A moment they wait. Then the curtain masking the middle
   window is swept aside, and_ VALENTINOIS _surges on the threshold. An
   instant he stands there raking the room with his glance._

      [_Wrapped in a hooded black cloak, he is in silhouette against the
   moonlight flooding the terrace behind him. Then he heaves a sigh that
   may be of satisfaction, and closes the window, but leaves the curtain
   drawn aside._

      [_He comes down, and at the foot of the steps lets his long mantle
   slip from his shoulders, emerging in close-fitting scarlet relieved
   only by a golden girdle from which hang dagger and purse._

      [GIULIA _cries out at the first sight of his cloaked and hooded
   figure. Having cast his cloak, he advances, speaking._

  VALENTINOIS: Why, Monna Giulia, do I affright you? Did you but know
. . . it is myself who come in fear.

  PANTHASILEA (_her voice strained_): In fear, my lord?

  VALENTINOIS (_advancing towards her_): How else are you to be
approached, madonna, but in fear?

  PANTHASILEA (_dissembling her uneasiness_): In fear of what?

  VALENTINOIS: Of loss of liberty.

      [_She starts._

  VALENTINOIS: For what man can account himself free who has met your
glance? What man can be other than a slave thereafter? . . . You laugh!

  PANTHASILEA (_breathing again_): My lord, as a courtier, you outshine
even the great soldier that you are.

  VALENTINOIS: Whatever I may be elsewhere, madonna, here at your feet a
courtier’s part contents me.

  PANTHASILEA: Highness! Too much honour!

      [_She moves towards the table._

  PANTHASILEA: You may leave us, Giulia.

      [GIULIA _curtsies in leave-taking, and goes out. At the door she
   pauses a moment, looking back upon them almost in fear. Meanwhile_,
   PANTHASILEA _at the table is taking up the beaker, and addressing_
   VALENTINOIS _anew_.

  PANTHASILEA: A cup of wine, my lord?

      [_She pours for him. He advances to take the cup._

  VALENTINOIS: With all my heart.

      [_He takes the glass and raises it towards his lips, but checks
   midway. His eyes narrow, and grow keen as they regard her. She is
   about to fill a second glass, when he stays her, covering it with his
   hand. She looks up at him in surprise. His countenance is again
   smiling and normal. Leaning towards her, he proffers his own glass._

  VALENTINOIS: One cup for us twain, I do beseech it, lady, humbly
conscious of my unworthiness. (_On a sudden muted note of passion._)
Pledge me, then, and leave the wine the richer by the fragrance of your
lips.

  PANTHASILEA (_drawing back, as if to refuse_): My lord!

  VALENTINOIS: Nay, now, I insist.

  PANTHASILEA: You insist?

      [_As she stares at him, a smile of understanding slowly breaks
   upon her face. Without another word, she drinks half the contents of
   the glass, then hands it to him._

      [_He takes it, heaving a sigh of satisfaction. As he drinks she
   speaks._

  PANTHASILEA: You are content, I trust.

  VALENTINOIS (_smiling, as he sets down the cup_): I see you
understand. Forgive the unworthy doubt. I should have known that one so
lovely, one in whose eyes honour and truth shine so brightly and
clearly, must be incapable of treachery or baseness. But I have walked
so long amid snares, that mistrust of wine and steel is become an
instinct. Forgive.

      [_She forces a light laugh, as she replies._

  PANTHASILEA: Nay, my lord. I am honoured that you should appoint me to
the exalted office of venom-taster in your household.

  VALENTINOIS: I accept the rebuke. It is deserved, alas! My instinct
conquered reason, which should have assured me that here, at least, I
have nothing to fear.

      [_He is standing before her now, his back to the uncurtained
   window, which she faces._

      [_The figure of a man in a peaked steel cap like that worn by_
   SANTAFIORA _is silhouetted for a moment against it by the moonlight.
   Catching sight of it, she shrinks a little. The figure passes, and
   disappears. He has not observed it._

  VALENTINOIS: Why do you shrink? And how cold you are!

  PANTHASILEA (_her voice trembling a little_): It is very chill. The
wind is in the north.

  VALENTINOIS: Come nearer to the fire, my Bianca.

      [_Holding her hands in his own left, he slips his right arm round
   her waist to conduct her. She makes a half-protest._

  PANTHASILEA: My lord! . . .

  VALENTINOIS: Would you play the north wind to me? Would you use me
coldly on this my last evening with you?

  PANTHASILEA (_with a catch in her voice_): Your last evening!

  VALENTINOIS: Of course you do not know. Come, I will tell you.

      [_She allows him to conduct her to the fire. He sinks to the
   settle, his back to the window. She remains standing before him,
   facing the window and him._

      [_The silhouette returns. Having reached mid-window, it halts
   there; the peaked steel headpiece, such as that worn by_ SANTAFIORA,
   _is discernible in the outline_.

      [_She watches it in terror lest_ VALENTINOIS _should turn and also
   see it_.

  VALENTINOIS: Though I be Duke of Valentinois, and Lord of Life and
Death throughout Romagna, yet I am the slave of harsh necessity. Duty
and work command me. At dawn I must answer to the summons.

      [_The silhouette moves again, crossing slowly to the left, and
   vanishing. Her eyes never quit it. The moment it has disappeared, she
   leaves him, and goes quickly up towards the window. Surprised, he
   follows her with his glance._

  VALENTINOIS: Why? What is it, Bianca?

      [_She drags the heavy curtain across the window._

      [_He starts up in a belated attempt to do the service._

  PANTHASILEA: Thus we shall be more private.

      [_She returns towards him._

  PANTHASILEA: You were saying, my lord?

  VALENTINOIS: I don’t believe you heard a word of it, or you would have
spared yourself that trouble. You would have known that I have not long
to stay.

  PANTHASILEA: But why, my lord?

  VALENTINOIS: Because at dawn we deliver the final assault, which is to
carry Solignola.

      [_He sits again. She remains standing, as before._

  PANTHASILEA: You . . . you are certain that it will be final?

  VALENTINOIS: In this life there are few things of which we can be
certain. But that I shall ride as a conqueror to-morrow into Solignola
is one of those few things.

  PANTHASILEA: My lord, it is unlucky to be overconfident.

  VALENTINOIS: Unless justified by every calculable circumstance.

  PANTHASILEA: There is always the incalculable.

  VALENTINOIS: Not here. Here all is soundly planned, and . . . (_He
breaks off, as if hesitating. Then resumes._) Why should I not tell you?
Are you not my friend? My one true and loyal friend in a land that
swarms with enemies and betrayers? Are you not, Bianca?

  PANTHASILEA: Indeed, my lord.

  VALENTINOIS (_heaving a sigh of content_): I do love to hear you
protest it! It warms me like wine. Listen, then: There is here in Assisi
a plot—a shrewd and well-laid plot—to destroy me.

  PANTHASILEA (_shrilly_): My lord!

  VALENTINOIS: Nay, do not start. It is no new thing. For years now I
have walked constantly in the shadow of death and betrayal. Custom has
robbed them of their terrors for me. They charge the air I breathe with
a stimulus that makes me strong. Without them I might grow soft, and
languish. Well, then, this plot: It was hatched in Solignola by the
Speranzoni, and so confident are they of its success . . . Nay, do not
tremble, child! There is no real cause for alarm.—They are so confident
of its success, so drugged and lulled by this confidence, that they have
kept a negligent watch up there at Solignola. Thus we have been able to
mine the Southern wall at a spot where a week ago I spied out a
weakness. They have offered us no hindrance, with the result that our
operations are complete. At dawn we fire the mine, and enter through the
breach. The Speranzoni meet the fate of those who lean on treachery.

      [_A silence._

  PANTHASILEA: But it still wants some hours to dawn. Betwixt this and
then, much may betide.

  VALENTINOIS: But nothing that is outside my calculations.

  PANTHASILEA: How can you be so sure?

  VALENTINOIS: Why! What do you fear for me, gentle lady?

  PANTHASILEA: You spoke of a plot—a shrewd and well-laid plot to
destroy you.

  VALENTINOIS: How sweet is this concern! I vow you are trembling. Oh,
dismiss your every fear. With the strength of the bull that is the
emblem of my house, I combine the cunning of the fox. There have been
more plots against my life, I do believe, than against the life of any
man since Adam. Where are the plotters now? Mostly dead of the death
they had prepared for me. They have my pity, poor deluded fools! My pity
and my prayers. God rest their evil, foolish souls!

  PANTHASILEA: But this present plot may not be like those others. This
time the plotters may prevail. And if they did. . . .

  VALENTINOIS: Pooh! Why have they not yet struck? Because opportunity
has been denied them. And now it is too late.

  PANTHASILEA: Too late? You are sure?

  VALENTINOIS: I am sure. None knows of my presence here to-night save
you and Monna Giulia.

  PANTHASILEA: We . . . we might be in the plot.

  VALENTINOIS (_laughing_): Dear saint! If I were capable, without good
reason, of suspecting you of any vileness, why, then I should be
unworthy to sit beside you here.

  PANTHASILEA: Yet just now you suspected my wine.

  VALENTINOIS: Am I not forgiven an offence that was born of habit?
Besides, to prepare the wine there were other hands than yours. (_Taking
one of her hands._) These gentle hands that could never dispense
anything but charity and good.

  PANTHASILEA (_withdrawing her hand, shrinking_): My lord! My lord!

  VALENTINOIS: Why? What now? Almost you seem afraid.

  PANTHASILEA: I am.

  VALENTINOIS: You are? Of me? Ah, surely, not of me?

      [_She is silent._

  VALENTINOIS: What cause can I have given? (_Passionately._) I come in
lowliest homage, to feast my soul on your dear presence, as the devout
feast upon the contemplation of eternal bliss. Do you not tell yourself
what joy and consolation it has been to me to find here a blessed haven,
a sanctuary where falsehood and evil have no room, where, secure from
peril, I may for a brief fleeting hour forget the world and turbulent
ambition? Do not those feminine intuitions, said to be never failing,
tell you that this Cesare Borgia, regarded in Italy as a dread
conqueror, is here a slave—your creature, to do with as you will? Ha!
If those who hate me had but won you to their service, in what a trap
might I not now be caught?

  PANTHASILEA (_trembling_): Why . . . O why do men hate you so?

  VALENTINOIS: Why? Hate, madonna, is the first-born of fear, and I have
made men fear me.

  PANTHASILEA: If I were a man and had your power, lord duke, I should
prefer to make men love me.

  VALENTINOIS: And how would you win the love of such creatures as those
upon whom it is my duty to make war? Can you name one amongst them who
deserves love, respect, or even mercy, at my hands?

  PANTHASILEA: Some you have slain who did no more—so it is said—than
defend their right.

  VALENTINOIS: “So it is said.” That introduces every tale of my
misdeeds. Whom have you heard named?

  PANTHASILEA: More than one, I think.

  VALENTINOIS (_frowning_): Eh? Their names, madonna!

  PANTHASILEA: There . . . there was Oliverotto, Lord of Fermo.

  VALENTINOIS: A brigand who butchered his own uncle that he might usurp
his place, and who would have sold me to the Orsini faction. Should I
have pitied such a scoundrel?

  PANTHASILEA: You cannot say the same of the Varano.

  VALENTINOIS: Did I slay old Giulio? Nay, now . . .

  PANTHASILEA: But you slew his son, Pietro . . . Pietro Varano.

      [_She speaks the name between tenderness and ferocity, her face
   averted from him._

      [_He eyes her a moment with narrowing glance. Faintly,
   understandingly, he smiles. Then he speaks, slowly, grimly._

  VALENTINOIS: Pietro Varano! Yes! What do you know of him?

  PANTHASILEA: I . . . ? What should I know? No more than what is said.

  VALENTINOIS: Not all of that, I hope. For there are things said of
him—and they are true—of which such purity as yours were best in
ignorance. You never heard perhaps how he treacherously poisoned Paolo
degli Uberti because he coveted Uberti’s wife?

      [_She wheels upon him suddenly, quivering with anger, her voice
   shrill._

  PANTHASILEA: Do you say that of Pietro Varano? It is false! A wicked,
evil lie!

  VALENTINOIS: It does credit to your charity that you should so believe
it. But it is true, none the less. Pietro Varano was like that—an evil
devil in an angel’s shape.

  PANTHASILEA: O God! It can’t be true! It can’t!

  VALENTINOIS: You are oddly moved. Does it happen, after all, that you
knew this fellow Varano?

  PANTHASILEA: I did. I knew him well, and honoured him.

  VALENTINOIS: Alas! For what I say is true. I had the tale from the
lips of Uberti when he lay dying. He was a condottiero in my service,
and my friend. I swore to him that I would see justice done; and when
Camerino fell, I did not forget. I never do. I always pay—as you’ll
discover when you know me better.

Varano was like all these petty tyrants whom I have expunged—from
Imola, Faenza, Pesaro, Rimini and the rest—a faithless steward. He was
of those set to rule in Romagna as Vicars of the Holy See. Instead,
abusing their trusts, they have ground the people to their own profit;
grown arrogant, they have rebelled against the authority of their
overlord, the Pope, from whom they hold their fiefs, and fallen to
brigand warfare among themselves. They have soaked the soil of this
Romagna in blood. Because I drove them out I am hated. But by whom? Is
it by the people of this Romagna? Nay. They hail me as a deliverer. My
best troops are Romagna men, who come flocking to my banner, eager to
throw off the yoke of their oppressors.

The men who hate me are the glutted tyrants I have deposed, and the
rulers of the great Italian States of Venice, Milan and Naples who
jealously dread my consolidation of this dismembered Romagna into one
great power that shall be the equal of themselves. Oh, and there is more
than that. Venice—covetous, peddling Venice, had looked with eyes of
greed upon the Romagna seaports. That greed I have frustrated. And now
Venetian spite vents itself in calumnies of me and mine that are
spreading over Europe with the rank luxuriance of all evil growths.
There is no crime that is not now attributed to us, no vice so foul but
that it is our daily habit, no evil lust by which we are not obsessed.
The least that is said of me is that I am a murderer, that the poison
cup and the dagger are my tools.

To-day I hear from Rome that the Cardinal Orsini has died in the castle
of Sant’ Angelo, where he was imprisoned because he had conspired
against my house, and already the rumour runs that he was poisoned by my
father. And the rumours of to-day are the history of to-morrow. There is
no evidence, but what matter that? All the world knows that it is
impossible for an old man of seventy to die a natural death.

But if we had desired his death should we have poisoned him in secret?
When I strike, I strike openly, that others may beware and tremble—and
justly, always justly.

In Rome there was a scribbler hired by Venice to defame us. He published
a pasquinade in which he represented me and mine as monsters of infamy.
Among the crimes with which he charged me was the murder of my own
brother Gandia, for reasons so grotesquely horrible that I will not
offend your ears with the recital of them.

I had him taken. But do you think I killed him?

  PANTHASILEA: None could have blamed you. What . . . what did you do?

  VALENTINOIS: I let him go.

  PANTHASILEA: You let him go?

  VALENTINOIS: All but his tongue and his right hand. Those I kept that
he might never utter or write another slander.

And so, Bianca, when you hear the evil that is so freely spoken of
Valentino, bethink you that evil may have provoked the deeds with which
he is charged.

If I have dwelt on these things in this last of the precious hours we
have spent together, it is that hereafter you may judge me with that
strict justice in which, myself, I deal.

      [_A pause._

      [_Throughout his apologia, her interest, faint at first, has
   gradually grown more and more keen. Now that he has done she sits
   very pensive._

You are silent, my Bianca! Is it that I have failed to convince you? Is
it that you prefer the voice of slander to my own? Do you doubt the
truth of what I have told you?

  PANTHASILEA: I do not. I would I could. But you have magic arts of
conviction when you talk.

  VALENTINOIS: You would that you could? Why so?

  PANTHASILEA (_confused_): My lord, I do not know what I am saying. I
am bewildered by your tale. It is at war with all that I have ever heard
of you, and yet (_impulsively_) God knows it agrees with what I have
come to think for myself during these days.

  VALENTINOIS: Happy days! Happier in that case than I had even dreamed
them!

  PANTHASILEA: Tell me this, my lord. . . . What—what fate do you
reserve to-morrow for Count Guido degli Speranzoni!

  VALENTINOIS (_He sighs. He seems beset by doubt, by weakness_): That
is the question that is troubling me. Count Guido, I know, is but the
catspaw of scheming Venice. It is Venice that has stiffened him into
this resistance. And I should be unjust if I visited the consequences
too heavily upon him. When I shall have reduced him to obedience, it
shall be his to continue Lord of Solignola, if he will frankly recognize
his stewardship and discharge its obligations.

  PANTHASILEA: Now am I indeed convinced. I see at last how I have been
misled. . . .

  VALENTINOIS: Misled?

  PANTHASILEA (_recollecting herself_): In the opinions I had formed.

  VALENTINOIS: Who could blame you? It is not often I am at such pains
to reveal myself as I have been to-night.

  PANTHASILEA: Why? Why is this?

  VALENTINOIS: Need you ask, Bianca? Does not the act explain itself?
Can you doubt the motive that urges me to stand well in your dear eyes?

  PANTHASILEA: These are but words! (_She utters a little laugh, half
bitter._) Will you ever think again, I wonder, when you pass on to
further conquests, of poor Bianca Bracci in her loneliness?

  VALENTINOIS (_faintly sardonic_): At Spoleto?

  PANTHASILEA: At . . . at Spoleto. Where else?

      [_He leans towards her, staring into her eyes until she draws
   back, shrinking, as if in fear. He rises, and moves to the hearth.
   There, after a moment, he turns, facing her again, and considering
   her obvious agitation. Then he speaks softly, his arms thrown out
   towards her._

  VALENTINOIS: Shall I come back to you, my Bianca? Shall I seek you at
Spoleto? Would you have it so?

      [_His glance envelops and holds her own, fascinating her._

  VALENTINOIS: Speak! Answer me, Bianca. My destiny, all my life, is in
your hands at this moment.

      [_The double meaning of the phrase arrests her, terrifies her.
   Suddenly she begins to weep. She speaks brokenly._

  PANTHASILEA: My lord! My lord!

      [_As if compelled and drawn by his glance, she rises, confronting
   him. He opens his arms._

  VALENTINOIS: Bianca! Come!

  PANTHASILEA (_battling against the magnetism of his personality_): Ah,
no! no!

      [_She hides her face in her hands. He steps forward, and takes her
   by the shoulders._

  VALENTINOIS: Bianca!

  PANTHASILEA (_piteously, seeking justification for a surrender to
which she is compelled_): Say . . . say that you love me!

  VALENTINOIS (_laughing softly_): That is a bombardment with which any
clown may win a citadel. I ask a free capitulation.

      [_He takes her in his arms. She falls to shuddering and sobbing
   against his breast. Over her head, his eyes look straight ahead into
   nothingness. They are invested with the mockery inseparable from
   knowledge. Then he stoops to kiss her—long and passionately.
   Thereafter, he gently disengages her arms from his neck, and steps
   away from her._

  VALENTINOIS: And now, farewell! I leave my soul with you.

      [_She starts in terror, remembering the men who wait for him in
   the garden. She clings to him fearfully, her voice trembling._

  PANTHASILEA: Ah, no, no! You shall not go!

  VALENTINOIS (_in surprise_): Why? What is this?

  PANTHASILEA (_panting_): Ah, not yet. . . . My lord, do not leave me
yet!

  VALENTINOIS: Would you tempt me from my duty? You know the work
awaiting me.

  PANTHASILEA: Yes, yes . . . I know. But . . . I know not when I shall
see you next. You ride at dawn. Valentino!

      [_Still clutching the long sleeve of his doublet, she sinks down,
   half collapsing upon the settle._

  VALENTINOIS: Sweet temptress!

  PANTHASILEA: There is something . . . something I must say to you
before you go.

  VALENTINOIS: You make resistance very hard. But it grows late, and I
have much to do.

  PANTHASILEA: Ah, not yet. Do not go yet! I am full of dreadful
premonitions. You say there is a plot to destroy you. What . . . what if
assassins should be lurking out there now, waiting for you?

  VALENTINOIS: How is that possible? None knows that I am here.

  PANTHASILEA: You . . . you may have been spied upon, and followed. Oh,
my dear lord, do not go hence just yet. Here—in here with me—at least
you are safe. Do not leave me racked by fear for you. . . .

  VALENTINOIS: Sweet persuader!

      [_He kisses her again, and moves towards window. She bars his
   way._

  PANTHASILEA (_desperately_): I can’t let you go! I can’t!

  VALENTINOIS: You can’t? Why?

  PANTHASILEA: Because . . . (_She checks, shrinking from giving the
true reason. Then pleads desperately._) Give me an hour, Valentino . . .
just one little hour.

      [_Looking at her, he slowly yields._

  VALENTINOIS: You turn my will to water. Let ambition go hang! I am but
mortal man. Though Solignola should go unconquered for to-morrow, here I
stay since you so bid me. (_He takes her in his arms._)

                        THE CURTAIN SLOWLY FALLS
      [_It remains lowered for half a minute to mark the passing of
   time._

                        THE CURTAIN RISES AGAIN
      [_The stage is now in darkness, save only for the glow of the fire
   and a beam of light from the open doorway of_ PANTHASILEA’S _room._
   VALENTINOIS _enters thence, and crossing to the hearth, takes up a
   taper and lights the extinguished candles on the overmantel. As he
   does so_, PANTHASILEA, _a loose robe about her, appears in the
   doorway_.

      [_He crosses to her. She clings to him._

  VALENTINOIS: The hour is sped—and more.

  PANTHASILEA: And in its speeding, it has altered the whole world for
you and me.

      [_He leads her across to the settle._

  VALENTINOIS: It is time for me to go.

  PANTHASILEA (_wildly_): Not yet! You must not leave me yet! How can
you leave me, now?

  VALENTINOIS: Alas! I must! It is nigh on midnight, and . . .

  PANTHASILEA (_interrupting, passionately pleading_): You love me? Say
that you love me, Valentino. You have not said it yet.

  VALENTINOIS: Does it still need words?

  PANTHASILEA: It does, it does. I must be very sure of it. Oh,
Valentino! (_Suddenly, overwrought, she falls to weeping._)

  VALENTINOIS: Why do you weep, Bianca?

  PANTHASILEA: Oh, I am vile! Vile!

  VALENTINOIS: What are you saying?

  PANTHASILEA: It is time that you knew.

      [_She speaks in a strained voice. It is obvious that she preserves
   her self-control only by an effort._

  PANTHASILEA: Awhile ago, if you had listened, you might have heard
steps out there.

  VALENTINOIS (_calmly_): I did. I heard the gravel crunching in the
garden.

  PANTHASILEA: You heard! Those were the footsteps of assassins, brought
here by my contriving.

      [_He does not move. Calmly he continues to regard her, smiling a
   little. She stares at him a moment, amazed by his calm. Then she
   interprets it in her own way._

  PANTHASILEA: You cannot believe it of me! You think I jest. No, you
think I am testing your affection for me. But it is true, I tell
you—true! I . . . I was sent hither to lure you into a trap that you
may be held as a hostage for the safety of Solignola. I . . . I am the
centre of the plot, of this plot to destroy you which you suspected.

      [_He continues calmly to regard her, maintaining his faint smile.
   Slowly he shakes his head. He speaks, on a note of incredulity._

  VALENTINOIS: You! You, Bianca! The lovely spider in this unclean web!
Pshaw! But if this were so, why should you tell me now?

  PANTHASILEA: Why? Why? Don’t you . . . don’t you see?

  VALENTINOIS: Unless you mean that because I am now in the trap, your
telling cannot matter. . . . I do not understand.

  PANTHASILEA: I tell you because I love you. You have made me love you,
Valentino—until I must break faith with those who trust me—betray them
all. Love has defeated me. I can no longer do this vile thing I came to
do.

  VALENTINOIS: I see.

  PANTHASILEA (_stricken by his unalterable calm_): You see? You see?

      [_He looks at her a moment, still smiling and enigmatic. Then he
   takes up his hat and cloak, and without a word, followed by her
   startled glance, he crosses and goes up to the window by which he
   entered. His hand is upon the curtain, when she speaks, crying out._

  PANTHASILEA: You do not believe me!

  VALENTINOIS (_turning_): Yes. I believe you.

  PANTHASILEA: You believe me! But then . . . ? Have you nothing to say?

  VALENTINOIS: What can be said to a traitress who makes, as you have
confessed, a snare of her own charms?

  PANTHASILEA (_stung_): Oh-h! And your contempt—in spite of all that
lies between us—will suffer you to say no more than that?

  VALENTINOIS: No more! (_He turns to go._)

  PANTHASILEA (_suddenly fierce_): Take care! My men still wait. You are
walking to your death—for death it will be at a word from me.

  VALENTINOIS: Why, what a thing do you conceive me, that I am to be
blown this way and that by every gusty emotion you display. You think to
stir me to love, to pity, to contempt, and now to fear—and all at your
good pleasure!

  PANTHASILEA (_in mounting anger_): Have you only scorn and mockery for
my love and pity?

  VALENTINOIS: Pity? And shall Cesare Borgia owe his life to your
compassion?

  PANTHASILEA: You may owe death to your own arrogance, if I but speak
the word.

  VALENTINOIS: Speak it, then. I urge you. Give the signal.

  PANTHASILEA (_furiously_): You will have it so! Why, then . . .
(_Shouting, and beating her hands together._) Ho, there! To me!
Santafiora!

      [_As she calls_, VALENTINOIS, _with a laugh, sweeps aside the
   curtain_.

  VALENTINOIS: Let me admit them for you.

      [_He pushes open the windows, then recoils a little. On the
   terrace are dimly visible four men in steel caps._ PANTHASILEA
   _advances a step, crying out shrilly_.

  PANTHASILEA: No! No! Wait! Santafiora! No violence—in God’s name!
. . . Ah!

      [_She ends on a scream, as the men come forward into the light
   where she can see them._

      [_Their leader is not_ SANTAFIORA, _but_ RAMIREZ, _and on the
   breasts of the other three is displayed the bull escutcheon that is
   the livery of the House of Borgia_.

      [RAMIREZ _bows and speaks to_ VALENTINOIS.

  RAMIREZ: My lord, your orders are fulfilled. We have seized all those
who were lurking in the garden. There were six of them. They are fast
bound, awaiting your pleasure.

  VALENTINOIS: You have done well, Ramirez. You have leave to go.

      [RAMIREZ _retires, but remains in view at the back of the terrace
   with his men_.

      [VALENTINOIS _looks at_ PANTHASILEA, _he smiles a little, between
   mockery and wistfulness. Leaning against the settle for support, she
   stares back at him wide-eyed. She speaks in a voice of horrified
   amazement._

  PANTHASILEA: You knew! You knew!

  VALENTINOIS: From the hour I met you, Panthasilea degli Speranzoni.

  PANTHASILEA: That, too!

  VALENTINOIS: That, too.

  PANTHASILEA (_in torturing bewilderment, weakly_): Then . . . then
. . . Why . . . ?

  VALENTINOIS: I left you free so that you might fool the defenders of
Solignola with your daily letters, until we completed the mine that is
to be fired at dawn.

  PANTHASILEA: And for that . . . for that you . . .

  VALENTINOIS: For that and something more. (_Suddenly exultant._) The
lust of Conquest! I accepted this duel against you and your woman’s
arts; and your confession when it came should be the admission that I
was conqueror in your heart and soul as I am conqueror elsewhere, as I
shall sit a conqueror to-morrow in Solignola.

      [_He sweeps her a bow, and goes up._

  PANTHASILEA (_in a strangled voice_): Solignola! Oh, God! What is left
for me now?

  VALENTINOIS (_pausing on the threshold of the window_): For you? Lady,
I leave you the memories of this hour.

      [_With a long-drawn, shuddering sob, she sinks down on the settle,
   and crouches there under the load of her shameful understanding._

      [_From the threshold_, VALENTINOIS _regards her for a moment, his
   face calm and expressionless. Then he passes out._

                                CURTAIN




  ACT IV




                                 ACT IV


    _A Hall in the Castle of Solignola._ (_As Act I._)

    _It is evening of the following day. In the sky, seen beyond the
    loggia, an orange glow of sunset pales gradually to lemon as the
    scene proceeds. This fades out thereafter during the act to
    palest turquoise and then begins to deepen, first to purple,
    then to sapphire blue, with the onset of night._

    _The scene is that of the first act. But the upper part of the
    stage is now furnished by a large dais upon which a banqueting
    table is set. At the middle place on the upper side of this
    there is a large, gilded armchair, flanked by two stools on
    either side; in addition an armchair is set at each end of the
    table. A lantern, on a tall pedestal, stands at each upper end
    of the dais, and there are two leather cushions on the dais in
    front of the table._

    _At rise of curtain_ MICHELETTO DA CORELLA _is standing in the
    loggia, attended by a_ PAGE. CORELLA _is in armour, stained and
    dusty. He has put off his helmet, and his head is cased in a
    velvet skull-cap_. =Two Lackeys= _are in the act of
    completing the furnishings of the banqueting-table, which
    consists of a platter, goblet and knife and spoon at each place,
    all gilded and decorated; of dishes of fruit, and tall,
    decorative wine jugs. A large, beautifully wrought cup of gold
    is in the middle place, where the great chair is set._

    _The main doors are open. On the parapet outside_ TWO SWISS,
    _under the direction of_ FERRANTE, _are hauling down the
    standard of the Speranzoni from the castle flag-staff. They tear
    it from the halyard and replace it by the banner of Cesare
    Borgia, which they proceed to hoist._

    _A carillon of joy-bells—begun before the rise of the
    curtain—crashes out in fullest volume as the flag soars aloft.
    With this comes now a burst of cheering from the courtyard
    below. Gradually thereafter the bells diminish, and, with a
    half-dozen single strokes, cease altogether._

    _The_ TWO LACKEYS, _having completed the furnishing of the
    table, now withdraw by the small door down right_.

  CORELLA: Thank heaven that’s over! If there’s a din I hate, boy, it’s
the ding-dong of church bells.

  PAGE: But when they are joy-bells—and rung for victory.

  CORELLA: Bells are bells, whatever they may be rung for—distracting
as a scolding woman’s tongue. Here, boy, help me off with my harness.

      [RAMIREZ _enters at back. He, too, is in armour._

  CORELLA: Ah, Ramirez! Well come.

  RAMIREZ: Well found, Micheletto!

      [_While the talk continues now, the_ PAGE _is assisting_ CORELLA
   _to disarm—back and breast, cuissarts and brassards only, which
   compose the armour_.

  RAMIREZ: So the job is really finished! And we labourers can lay aside
our tools. Faith! It proved none so difficult in the end. These men of
Solignola didn’t show much spirit.

  CORELLA: Spirit? We blew the spirit out of them when we fired the mine
this morning. It took them too completely by surprise.

  RAMIREZ: Still, they might have made a better show at the breach. Why,
they were just driven in like sheep in panic. I had expected more of
them.

  CORELLA: The fact is, they had expected less of us. Be thankful.

  RAMIREZ: I am. The job is done. We’re here, and all is quiet. Where is
the duke?

  CORELLA: His highness is closeted with Count Guido (_He points L._),
settling the details of the terms, and not to be disturbed.

  RAMIREZ: But I’ve come for orders.

  CORELLA: I have them for you. You are to remain in Solignola with your
troop, to furnish a bodyguard for his highness, and to escort him hence
to-morrow. But you are to order Naldi and Scipione to withdraw all their
men from the town and to encamp them in the valley.

  RAMIREZ: Withdraw them from the town?

  CORELLA: His highness will take no risk of pillage or any sort of
violence. See to it, Ramirez. Let your officers remind them that if any
man steals so much as a straw his neck will pay for it.

  RAMIREZ: The duke is very tender of these his latest subjects.

  CORELLA: That is his usual way.

      [_The_ SENESCHAL _comes in at back_.

  CORELLA: What is it?

  SENESCHAL: The Orators of the Powers are here, to felicitate his
highness upon his victory.

  CORELLA: Bid them in.

      [_The_ SENESCHAL _bows and withdraws_.

  CORELLA: Be off, Ramirez. Draw up your troop in the square before the
Duomo. His highness will be there presently.

  RAMIREZ: I go.

      [_He bows and turns to depart. As he is going, the ambassadors
   enter_: MACCHIAVELLI, CAPELLO, SINIBALDI (_who is livid with
   chagrin_), MARIANO _and_ GASPARO.

  CORELLA: Sirs, to command. His highness bade me announce you the
moment you arrived. He will, I know, be honoured by your
congratulations. If you will give me leave, I will let him know at once.

      [CORELLA _goes out L., followed by the_ PAGE _bearing his arms_.

  CAPELLO (_falsely genial_): There is good cause for our
congratulations. These people of Solignola take their defeat in
excellent part.

  SINIBALDI (_sourly_): As the mountains take rain. Because they cannot
help themselves.

  MACCHIAVELLI: A happy image, Lord Prince.

  SINIBALDI (_mistrustful_): Eh?

  MACCHIAVELLI: Is not the rain beneficent to the mountains? Does it not
bring fertility to their slopes?

  SINIBALDI: Maybe. But that is not what I had in mind.

  CAPELLO (_hastening to explain_): It is the passive acquiescence in
their subjection that amazes the prince.

  MACCHIAVELLI: But why should it? The folk of Solignola know that their
conquest by the duke is for their ultimate good; they know his way, and
that they need apprehend no danger to life or property.

  SINIBALDI: What of the life and property of Count Guido, Messer
Niccolò? Will you answer for those?

  MACCHIAVELLI: As to the property, it was never really his own. Count
Guido was but a Vicar of the Holy See, a feudatory of Rome.

  SINIBALDI: You take that view, do you?

  MACCHIAVELLI: Does not your lordship?

  CAPELLO (_interrupting hurriedly_): But of course, of course!

  SINIBALDI: And his life then? What of that?

  MACCHIAVELLI: A delicate matter. When a prince conquers such a State
as this, he will, if he is a wise prince, do one of two things: either
he will constrain the members of the vanquished family to become his
friends, or else . . .

  SINIBALDI: Or else?

  MACCHIAVELLI: Or else put it beyond their power to be his enemies.

  SINIBALDI: That, no doubt, is the policy his highness will prefer.

  MACCHIAVELLI: Dare you blame him?

  SINIBALDI: Sir, I am not so steeped in statecraft that I can find no
pity for Count Guido.

  MACCHIAVELLI: Pity! That is an emotion. It has no place in policy.

  SINIBALDI: It certainly has none in Valentino’s.

  MACCHIAVELLI: That is why he is a model prince.

      [CORELLA _re-enters, and announces_.

  CORELLA: Sirs, his highness!

      [VALENTINOIS _and_ GUIDO _come in by the door down R., following_
   CORELLA. VALENTINOIS _is booted to the thighs and wears a short
   hacketon, below which gleams the escalloped edge of a coat of mail.
   Over this he wears the gonfalonier’s mantle as in Act II. Scene I. He
   is covered by a steel cap, and wears gloves, one of which he is
   drawing on as he enters._ COUNT GUIDO, _too, is in leather, and a
   steel gorget still remains upon him of his armour. His head is
   bandaged, and he carries his left arm in a sling. He is pale and
   dejected._

      [_The_ ORATORS _all bow as_ VALENTINOIS _advances_.

  VALENTINOIS: Sirs, it honours me that you should seek me here so soon.
Twice gives who quickly gives.

  CAPELLO: Knowing that at dawn you set out for Rome, this was our only
opportunity to present our felicitations.

  VALENTINOIS: I make them very welcome, and you, sirs. But my time is
short. I am awaited at the Cathedral by the Ancients of the City who are
to swear fealty upon my hands. If you will give me your support and
company at the ceremony I shall be honoured.

  ORATORS (_They all bow, mumbling platitudes_): Highness, the honour
will be ours. It is we shall be honoured! We could not miss the
occasion.

  VALENTINOIS: On our return perhaps I may have your company at
supper—simple and informal, because I must retire early against
to-morrow’s journey. Count Guido, here, will be our host.

      [_There is a movement of surprise._

  VALENTINOIS: For I rejoice to tell you that Count Guido is to continue
here in Solignola as Rome’s Vicar and my Vice-gerent, subject to certain
conditions which have been happily agreed. Count Guido is not required
to take the oath in public. He shall be privately sworn before I depart.
And now, sirs, if it be your pleasure, we will proceed to the Cathedral.

      [_They fall back._ CORELLA _goes ahead to the door at back. Beyond
   it the_ SWISS _come to attention_. VALENTINOIS _bows to_ COUNT GUIDO,
   _and goes up and out, the others following. As he appears at the head
   of the stairs there is a flourish of trumpets and a burst of cheering
   from the courtyard below. This is followed by martial music as he
   descends out of view, which continues some little time, but dwindling
   in the distance until it fades away entirely._

      [_The doors are closed by the_ SWISS, _and_ COUNT GUIDO _is left
   alone. He makes a mute gesture of despair, then crosses with dragging
   feet towards the chair by the hearth, into which he lets himself
   fall. He pulls a letter from his pocket, straining his eyes to read
   it (yet again, having read it previously). As he reads he groans._

      [_The door at back is softly opened. The_ SWISS, _having followed_
   VALENTINOIS, _are no longer on guard there_.

      [SINIBALDI _enters furtively_.

      [_Hearing his step_, COUNT GUIDO _crushes the letter in his hand,
   and turns in alarm_.

  GUIDO: Sinibaldi!

  SINIBALDI (_in the act of closing the door_): I gave them the slip in
the courtyard. Let them go to their fawning on this bastard. You had my
message?

  GUIDO: Your message? Yes. I have it here. God’s curse on you!

  SINIBALDI (_aghast_): On me! Why . . .

  GUIDO: Was it not you that set her on to this? Was it not you who sent
her to this ruin that has dragged our own at its heels.

  SINIBALDI: My friend, I heed your poor bruised heart, rather than your
words. Was it my fault that your daughter failed us in this fashion?
Could I foresee that this devil would beguile her so? And to say I sent
her! It was she, herself, afire with vengeance, who insisted. Your grief
makes you unjust, Lord Count.

  GUIDO: I am accursed, I think! Why—as there is God of Pity—did not
the pike that broke my arm this morning tear out my heart instead? Why
did not the sword that shore my brow bite deep into this old brain? Was
I spared that I may go mad? For what was spared?

  SINIBALDI: My friend! My poor friend!

  GUIDO: Poor! that is the word. A thing of pity. Count Guido degli
Speranzoni, once a proud eagle on these craggy heights; now a poor
battered fowl, so tame and broken, that I am to feed from the hand of
this ravisher of my power and of my honour!

  SINIBALDI: Sh! Have a care!

  GUIDO (_on a musing, bitter tone, tapping the letter_): Three hours
you say he stayed alone with her last night, whilst his men made fast
all those she had posted in the garden. Three hours!

  SINIBALDI: And it’s my belief that but for her weakness she could have
taken him the night before. I have it from herself that he was there
alone—alone and in secret.

  GUIDO: Hell! It seems impossible. I’d not believe it but for her lying
letters, her failure and her absence now. Her lover Pietro but three
months dead! Her soul, a flame of vengeance! And then . . . this. That
is woman. Woman! Again I ask you, why have I been spared?

  SINIBALDI: For vengeance, surely.

  GUIDO: Eh? Are you mad?

  SINIBALDI: This bolt has missed. But I’ve another in my armoury. We’ll
end where we should have begun. I was a fool ever to have yielded to
this crazy plan of taking him alive.

  GUIDO: Do you reproach me with that?

  SINIBALDI: If I had insisted on the direct and simple way, we should
have had him stiff by now. There was ample opportunity in Assisi, and I
must have seized it, but that I trusted to your crack-brained scheme.

  GUIDO: God’s light, man! Do you think I have no memory? When you came
here seeking catspaws to do the work of Venice, you gave a dozen reasons
why the hand of the Serene Republic should not be seen. And now we have
your big talk of what you would have done but that we thwarted you!

  SINIBALDI: In what I would have done the hand of Venice would never
have appeared. It will not now in what is yet to do.

  GUIDO: Be plain, man.

  SINIBALDI: You’ll take a little risk to make him cold, to avenge your
ruin and your daughter’s shame?

  GUIDO: A little risk? There’s no risk too big to daunt me. I am to
swear fealty to him upon the Scriptures and upon his hands, so that I
may purchase a few more years of this dishonoured life. If I can avert
that. . . .

  SINIBALDI: Listen!

      [_He looks cautiously round, and draws a little silver phial from
   his pocket._

  SINIBALDI: He delivers himself into our hands. This supper to which we
are bidden . . . Look! One single drop of this, rubbed round the cup
from which he is to drink. . . . One drop. . . . So little that it will
not show. Let him drink but half the cupful, and in less time than it
will take to tell a dozen paternosters he will be journeying over Styx.

      [_They look at each other in silence._

  SINIBALDI: It leaves no signs, and none will know of what he died.

  GUIDO (_with sarcasm_): Save that he died here in my house—at my
table!

  SINIBALDI: Do you not wish him dead? Have you not cause enough to kill
him? Your daughter . . .

  GUIDO: O cease! Let the thing be done. What do I care so that he
perishes? What do I care that I do the work of Venice, so that I do my
own?

  SINIBALDI: That’s it, that’s it! Each of us achieves his ends.

  GUIDO: But only one will pay. What matter? I am past caring. There’s
his cup—the cup of honour—already set. Do it, and be damned!

      [SINIBALDI _steps eagerly to the table, takes up the cup, and from
   the phial measures into it one drop_.

  SINIBALDI: A lovely cup for such a draught!

      [_He twirls the cup to spread the drop of liquid. He is still
   doing so when the door at back opens and,_ PANTHASILEA _comes in. She
   is wrapped in a black, hooded cloak, her face pale and set._

      [SINIBALDI _wheels in alarm at the sound of the opening door,
   still holding the cup a second before he hastily puts it down_.

  SINIBALDI: Madonna!

      [GUIDO _turns, sees her, and utters an audible gasp of mingled
   anger and amazement_.

      [_She comes forward, loosens and removes her cloak, under which
   she is darkly clad. She flings the cloak on a chair by the door. She
   looks at her father in mute, appealing expectancy._

  GUIDO (_starting up_): So, you have returned at last, you drab!

  PANTHASILEA (_piteously_): Father!

  GUIDO (_with a gesture of loathing_): Never . . . never call me by
that name again. I would a blight had withered me or ever I begat a
harlot. O God! the shame of it!

      [PANTHASILEA _stands rigid, frozen_.

  SINIBALDI: Patience, sir! At least hear what Monna Lea has to say.
Perhaps she can explain. . . .

  GUIDO: Explain what? Her presence here? (_To_ PANTHASILEA.) Why have
you come back? To see for yourself the ruin you have wrought? To see
your broken father dragged at the bloody wheel of this conqueror’s
chariot? Or is it so that I may kill you, and thus wipe out your
disgrace and mine?

      [_With his hand on his dagger, he turns as if to rush upon her._
   SINIBALDI _restrains him_.

  PANTHASILEA: Nay, Lord Prince! Let be! (_To_ GUIDO.) Kill me if you
will. Kill me and be welcome. But do it cleanly with your dagger or your
hands, not foully with your tongue.

  GUIDO: Why, so I will. But first, madonna, render your accounts. What
did you go to do in Assisi, and what was it that you did?

  PANTHASILEA: What I went to do, you know; and why I went to do it.

  GUIDO: Ay; but will you tell us what you did?

  PANTHASILEA: I went to save Solignola. My love for Solignola and you
was one spur to drive me. The other was my hate of the murderer of
Pietro Varano.

  GUIDO: Yes, yes. This we know. Come to the business.

  PANTHASILEA: My hate was fed on lies on—lies. I believed Pietro to be
good and noble; I learnt that he was base and vile, a murderer, an
adulterer—the man I was to have married, the man my virgin heart had
sanctified.

  GUIDO: So! They told you of the business of the Uberti!

  PANTHASILEA: You knew! You—my father—and you let me go immolate
myself to avenge—that!

  GUIDO: Is there more of this?

  PANTHASILEA: A little more. There is the other lie, the lie touching
this man I was to betray into your hands. He was depicted to me as a
monster in body and in soul.

  GUIDO: In soul! He has no soul. He is antichrist.

  PANTHASILEA: So you taught me, and so I believed, so I thought last
night that I had proof—until I came to see that what I deemed his
vileness was but the mirror of my own. I went to do a Judas work. I was
detected. . . .

  GUIDO: Detected? You mean that you betrayed us.

  PANTHASILEA: Betrayed you! There was not the need. He knew; from the
first he knew. He was never in my power. I was ever in his.

  SINIBALDI: But, madonna, two nights ago, when he came, as you told me,
you might have taken him then.

  PANTHASILEA: You think so?

  SINIBALDI: I have your word for it, that you had not posted your men.

  PANTHASILEA: But if I had posted them, that would have happened then
which happened last night instead.

  GUIDO: Had he not beguiled you, the blow would have been struck a week
ago, and if it missed, we could have taken other measures.

  PANTHASILEA (_scornfully_): Against him? It is your vanity that blinds
you, that has blinded you throughout, as it blinded those treacherous
dolts at Sinigaglia, as it blinded me—poor fool!—when I went to
proffer him my Judas-kiss, and stayed instead to receive the Judas-kiss
from him.

      [_With a growl of rage_, GUIDO _would fling himself upon her. But
   again_ SINIBALDI _restrains him_.

  SINIBALDI (_suddenly inspired_): You see how it is! She is possessed!
That warlock has practised the black arts upon the girl.

  GUIDO (_stricken by the explanation_): Saints of Heaven! Can you
believe . . .

  SINIBALDI: Can you behold her, can you hear her, and still doubt that
she is bewitched?

  GUIDO: Bewitched! (_Draws his dagger._) Let me go, by Heaven! that I
may exorcise her.

  SINIBALDI: Nay, nay, man! A deed of violence now, and you ruin all.

      [GUIDO _pauses, and curbs himself, recollecting_.

  PANTHASILEA: Do not restrain him, sir. And do not deceive yourselves.
He practised on me no witchery but that of his beauty, his cunning and
his power.

  GUIDO: You shameless drab!

  SINIBALDI: How should she understand—poor victim of his spells?

  PANTHASILEA: That, yes—that and more. Say also: the wretched dupe of
his loathing and his scorn, which he disguised under a glittering mask
of love. O God! Is there in all the world such another thing of shame?
Why don’t you kill me, and have done?

  GUIDO: Ay!

  SINIBALDI (_again restraining_): We will do better, madonna. We will
avenge you.

  PANTHASILEA: Avenge me! You! (_Laughs._) How will you avenge me?

  SINIBALDI: I will end now where I should have begun—do that which as
lately as last night I was urging you to do.

  PANTHASILEA: You will kill him—you!

  SINIBALDI: I will bring about his end.

  PANTHASILEA: And how will you accomplish it? He is invulnerable.
Weapons forged to slay him, turn against those that handle them.

  SINIBALDI: Not this one. Impalpable, invisible, it lies in wait for
him already.

  GUIDO: Ay.

  PANTHASILEA: You deceive yourselves to your undoing. He is empanoplied
in caution, armed in cunning against all your wiles.

  GUIDO: His cunning cannot turn steel or supply the antidote to poison.

  PANTHASILEA: He wears mail under his silk as a protection against
steel, and never touches meat or wine without a venom-taster.

  GUIDO: What’s that?

      [HE LOOKS SHARPLY AT SINIBALDI, _who has also made a movement of
   dismay_. PANTHASILEA _observes one and the other_.

  PANTHASILEA: Last night, myself, I was appointed to that office. He
constrained me to it before he would drink a cup of wine I offered him.
He takes no chances.

  GUIDO (_bewildered_): You! He made you his venom-taster, do you say?

  PANTHASILEA: Yes.

      [GUIDO _considers her a moment with dilating eyes. Then
   deliberately he sheathes his dagger._

  GUIDO: Now I understand why God has willed that you should come back,
despite your load of shame.

  SINIBALDI: Eh?

  GUIDO: It is so that you may be his venom-taster once again, to-night.

      [SINIBALDI _audibly sucks in his breath. He would intervene, but
   controls himself._

      [_There is a tense pause._ PANTHASILEA, _looking at her father,
   at_ SINIBALDI _and finally at the cup with which she has seen him
   tampering, realizes all. There is from her a flash of inspiration,
   almost instantly veiled. She smiles a little at last, but with more
   mockery than mirth._

      [_Martial music is heard faintly in the distance and rapidly
   approaching._

  PANTHASILEA: I understand, I think. So be it. It is very . . . just.

      [SINIBALDI, _who has been showing constraint, breathes freely
   again_.

  SINIBALDI: And very timely. They are returning.

      [GUIDO _sinks limply into a chair, his head in his hands_.
   PANTHASILEA _turns slowly, and goes up and out into the half-gloom of
   the loggia, where she remains standing, looking out_.

      [SINIBALDI _approaches_ GUIDO, _and touches his shoulder_.

  SINIBALDI: Come, brace yourself, Lord Count. You have a part to play.

  GUIDO: A part! Lord of Heaven! What part is mine?

  SINIBALDI: A Roman part.

  GUIDO (_bitterly_): Written by a Venetian. Pah!

      [_The main doors are thrown open._ MACCHIAVELLI, CAPELLO, GASPARO
   _and_ MARIANO _come in. The music swells up, now close at hand._

      [TWO LACKEYS _enter from above door right, with tapers, and light
   the lanterns to dispel the gathering dusk_.

      [GUIDO _rises to receive the orators, controlling himself_.

  GUIDO: Sirs, you are well returned.

  CAPELLO: You missed a very impressive ceremony. But it was kind of
you, Lord Prince, to bear Count Guido company. Courage, Lord Count.
After all, you retain your vicarship.

  GUIDO (_impatiently_): Where is his highness?

  MACCHIAVELLI: He follows.

  CAPELLO: Here he comes.

      [FOUR SWISS _enter and take up their stations inside the door.
   Then comes_ VALENTINOIS, _preceded immediately in single file by_
   CORELLA, RAMIREZ _and_ FERRANTE, _and followed by two pages_.
   VALENTINOIS _takes off his steel cap and then the velvet skull-cap
   under it. These he hands to one of the pages, who sets them down.
   Then_ VALENTINOIS _comes forward, ungloving, raking the room with his
   glance, which finally settles on_ SINIBALDI.

  VALENTINOIS: Ah, Lord Prince! We missed your company in the Cathedral.

      [_At the sound of his voice_ PANTHASILEA _wheels about, a hand
   clutching her agitated bosom_.

  SINIBALDI: I was none so well, highness, and Venice was well
represented by Messer Capello.

  VALENTINOIS (_nodding_): Who will report to the Serene Republic this
happy conclusion of our campaign.

  SINIBALDI: The Serene Republic will rejoice in this.

  VALENTINOIS (_dryly_): I know.

  SINIBALDI: And she will commend your generous wisdom in the matter of
Count Guido.

  VALENTINOIS: To merit the approval of the Most Serene is more than a
reward. It leaves me in her debt—and in yours, Lord Prince. I shall
study to repay. I always pay my debts. But come, sirs. To table! I have
a long journey before me for to-morrow, and so I must early to bed.

      [_He turns, and so confronts_ PANTHASILEA, _who is standing in the
   loggia. He starts at sight of her. Recovering, he speaks calmly, in
   greeting, bowing low._

  VALENTINOIS: Monna Panthasilea! My homage. I had not dared to hope
that you would grace our company to-night.

      [_He extends his hand. She hesitates a moment, then comes forward,
   and kisses it, curtsying._

      [_Retaining her hand, he turns to lead her to a place beside his
   own._

  VALENTINOIS: Come, then. To table! You, madonna, here on my right.

  PANTHASILEA: I am here to discharge the office to which your highness
has appointed me.

  VALENTINOIS: Office?

  PANTHASILEA: Venom-taster to your potency.

      [VALENTINOIS’ _eyes quicken suddenly. They flash upon_ COUNT GUIDO
   _and from him to_ SINIBALDI, _both of whom betray constraint. Then he
   looks steadily at_ PANTHASILEA.

  VALENTINOIS: That is to take a jest too seriously.

  PANTHASILEA: No office in the service of your potency can be taken as
a jest.

  VALENTINOIS: Certainly not that one. It is no sinecure to be
venom-taster to Cesare Borgia. It has its risks, madonna.

  GUIDO: Not here, my lord.

  VALENTINOIS: Could I suggest it? I could no more suspect your lordship
than I could suspect . . . say, Prince Sinibaldi, who represents a State
that loves and honours me, or this sombre Macchiavelli, who strictly
confines himself to poisoning minds.

  MACCHIAVELLI: I thank your highness for the compliment.

  VALENTINOIS: There was none intended. But be seated, pray. You, here
beside me, Ser Niccolò; then Ramirez; you, Lord Prince, there, and
Micheletto yonder. Messeri Capello, Gasparo and Mariano here on my left.
You, Lord Count, up there, where you can command your seneschal. Be
seated, pray.

      [_All sit._

      [_The_ FOUR SWISS _remain on guard, two on each side of the closed
   doors, Ferrante between them_.

  VALENTINOIS: It is regrettable that the only lady present should
remain standing by virtue of her office. But since you insist, madonna,
I’ll not deny myself the honour you would pay me, all unworthy though I
account myself.

      [_He sits._ PANTHASILEA _remains standing behind him and a little
   to his right_.

      [_The_ SENESCHAL _comes in L., ushering two lackeys with dishes of
   risotto; two other lackeys follow with jugs of wine; the_ SENESCHAL,
   _himself, carries a jug. For a moment there is the bustle of
   preparation, and a general hum of talk. Then_ VALENTINOIS _leans
   forward to address_ SINIBALDI, _and all fall silent_.

  VALENTINOIS: You are pale, Lord Prince.

  SINIBALDI: Your highness honours me by your attention. I have said
that I am none so well.

  VALENTINOIS: You should study your health, sir. In you the Most Serene
would lose a precious servant, and I a valued friend.

  SINIBALDI: Your highness overwhelms me.

      [_A lackey is pouring wine for_ SINIBALDI.

      [_At the same moment the_ SENESCHAL _approaches_ VALENTINOIS _to
   pour for him from his own special jug_. VALENTINOIS _prevents him, by
   covering the chalice with his hand_.

  VALENTINOIS: Wait! I’ll drink from the same jug as the prince. I have
a pledge for him, and it is proper we should drink it in one wine.

      [_To the servant who has poured for_ SINIBALDI.

  VALENTINOIS: You there!

      [_The_ SERVANT _approaches him_. VALENTINOIS _uncovers his
   chalice_.

  VALENTINOIS: Pour.

      [_The_ SERVANT _fills_ VALENTINOIS’ _cup, whilst the latter
   covertly watches_ SINIBALDI, _who cannot repress a smile at the
   futile precaution. He half sneers as he says_:

  SINIBALDI: Your highness takes no risks.

  VALENTINOIS: That is why I am alive. I drink to you, Lord Prince, and
to the illustrious State you represent so worthily.

      [_He raises his cup._ SINIBALDI _does the same. Slowly, his eyes
   ever on_ SINIBALDI, VALENTINOIS _carries the cup towards his lips. He
   is about to drink._

  PANTHASILEA: I have not tasted for your magnificence.

      [VALENTINOIS _checks, the cup almost at his lips. Very slowly, he
   half lowers it._

  VALENTINOIS: That ceremony is surely idle. But so are many. Let us
preserve the forms.

      [_He sets the cup down. She takes it, raises it, and slowly
   drinks._

      [VALENTINOIS _does not look round, but is intently watching_
   SINIBALDI, _who, almost despite himself, in his rage and excitement,
   makes a half-movement to warn or to check. But finding_ VALENTINOIS’
   _eyes upon him, he instantly suppresses it_.

      [PANTHASILEA _sets down the cup which she has emptied_.

      [_His stare demands an explanation of the act._

  PANTHASILEA: I . . . I thirsted, highness.

  VALENTINOIS: Thirsted! But . . . to drain my cup . . . to the last
drop . . .

  PANTHASILEA: It was . . . unwarrantable. I . . . I ask your pardon. I
will repair the fault. I . . .

      [_She falters. Her senses swim, but from emotion rather than the
   working of the poison. She swings half round and away to the right,
   gasping a little._

      [VALENTINOIS _sits frozen. As he fits together the last pieces of
   the puzzle and discovers the whole truth at last, understanding,
   amazement and horror transform his countenance. There is a sudden
   reaction in his mind, a sudden sloughing of his monstrous egotism,
   reflected in his awe-stricken face._

  PANTHASILEA: Air! Air! God! Give me air!

      [VALENTINOIS _bounds up, his voice vibrant with real passion and
   grief_.

  VALENTINOIS: Panthasilea! Panthasilea!

      [_He catches her in his arms, as she staggers in danger of
   falling._

      [_All rise, save_ GUIDO, _who remains seated, his head in his
   hands, utterly crushed, almost insensible_.

      [VALENTINOIS _raves wildly on, his whole manner changed to reflect
   the sudden revulsion in his soul_.

  VALENTINOIS: Lea! The wine was poisoned, and you knew it. You drained
the cup to save me. Lea!

      [_She breathes hard in his arms, but makes no answer. Holding her,
   he swings to his_ SWISS, _and with one hand points to_ SINIBALDI.

  VALENTINOIS: Seize me that Venetian dog! Make him fast!

      [SINIBALDI _attempts to draw his dagger. But his arms are
   instantly seized by_ CORELLA _and_ RAMIREZ, _who are on either side
   of him. They promptly disarm him, and surrender him to the_ SWISS,
   _who have leapt forward_.

  VALENTINOIS: Ah! You show an odd readiness to handle steel, now that
your poison has missed its mark.

  SINIBALDI: Highness, I protest against this violence!

  CAPELLO (_in flabby agitation_): As do I, magnificent, in the name of
the Most Serene.

  VALENTINOIS: Cease, fool! Do you bleat your threats at me?

      [_Half carrying, half supporting_ PANTHASILEA, VALENTINOIS
   _conducts her to the chair right of table, lately vacated by_
   SINIBALDI. _He stands looking at her in anguish a moment._

  SINIBALDI: Your exalted potency is overlooking something, I think. I
am an ambassador, and my person is inviolable. I am Prince Sinibaldi,
Envoy of Venice.

  VALENTINOIS (_frenziedly_): If you were Prince Lucifer, Envoy of Hell,
you should still pay for this.

  SINIBALDI: Your potency dares to say that I . . .

  VALENTINOIS: Fool! Will you prevaricate upon the very threshold of
Eternity? For that is where you stand. . . . Unless you can repair what
you have done. . . . Your life for hers. That is my offer. Give me the
antidote—the antidote to your Venetian poison, and you shall have your
filthy life.

      [PANTHASILEA, _moved by his passionate frenzy, looks up; and
   though her laboured breathing shows her extremity, she smiles_.

  SINIBALDI: I have no antidote. I know nothing of poison—if poison it
be by which she is stricken. As for your threats—for any violence to
me, you will be called to render a strict account to Venice.

  VALENTINOIS (_in a voice of thunder_): And I will render it. But
though her legions were already at my gates, though my ruin were
assured, I should not spare you now.

  CAPELLO: In Heaven’s name, magnificent!

  VALENTINOIS (_heedlessly, indicating_ SINIBALDI): Take him away! Give
him a priest, and then a rope—and so, let him face his Maker.

  SINIBALDI: You seal your own doom with mine.

  VALENTINOIS: Take him away! You have my orders.

      [_The_ SWISS _lead_ SINIBALDI _up and out_.

  CAPELLO (_quavering_): Highness! Highness! Bethink you! This will mean
war.

  VALENTINOIS: I’ll welcome it. Begone! Micheletto, clear the room.
Sirs, you have leave to go! Ramirez, a doctor! Bestir, man! Quick! in
Heaven’s name!

      [RAMIREZ _plunges out, the ambassadors following_. CORELLA
   _touches_ GUIDO’S _shoulder. The latter rises, looks wildly round,
   and turns as if to go towards_ PANTHASILEA. VALENTINOIS _waves him
   back_.

  VALENTINOIS: Go, sir! Go! You are her father. I will not ask what part
you had in this. But go.

      [GUIDO _goes out L. with_ CORELLA.

      [VALENTINOIS _turns again to_ PANTHASILEA, _who is leaning back
   with closed eyes. He kneels beside her._

  VALENTINOIS: Lea! Lea! Speak to me, Lea!

      [_She opens her eyes, considers his grief-stricken face, and
   smiles wistfully._

  PANTHASILEA: My lord!

  VALENTINOIS: O God of Heaven! Where is now my boasted might? I would
give all that I have won at so much cost for just the power to stay your
ebbing life. Lea, forgive! Had I but known, had I but dreamed your worth
. . .

  PANTHASILEA: I was the agent of a vile betrayal, and you knew me to be
that. But I have made amends . . .

  VALENTINOIS: Amends! Oh! (_In a sudden frenzy, leaping up._) Where is
this doctor? Will he never come?

  PANTHASILEA: Let be. There is no doctor that can help me now.

  VALENTINOIS: Lea! My poor murdered love!

  PANTHASILEA (_eagerly_): Say that again, my lord. . . . Say that
again!

  VALENTINOIS: My love! My love!

  PANTHASILEA (_smiling_): So you have come to love me a little at the
last? I am content, Valentinois. Do you remember how I begged in vain
last night that you should speak that little word that would have healed
my shame? You would not. You would not lie. So if you say it now . . .
it must be true.

  VALENTINOIS: If it could avail I would give my life to prove it. Why
have I found you but to lose you again? You drank that poisoned wine to
save me—me! Why?

  PANTHASILEA: The lust of the conquest! To hear you say what you have
said.

  VALENTINOIS: Was so much needed to accomplish that?

  PANTHASILEA: It was. You deemed me just a treacherous wanton. How else
could I give proof? Would anything less have made you believe in me?
Would anything less have conquered you?

  VALENTINOIS: It is a conquest that must break me if you leave me now.
(_He takes her up in his arms. He holds her now, crushing her to him._)
Stay with me, Lea—O pitying Heaven!—stay!

  PANTHASILEA: Thus did I plead with you last night, as passionately and
as vainly. Thus did I beg you to stay. You would not then, and now I
. . . I cannot.

      [_He kisses her. She smiles._

  PANTHASILEA: But this time . . . we part . . . friends . . .
lovers. . . . (_On a sudden alarmed outcry._) Valentinois!

  VALENTINOIS: Lea!

  PANTHASILEA: It is growing dark. . . . It . . .

      [_A long fluttering sigh escapes her. She makes a convulsive
   movement. Her head falls back. She is dead._

      [_A moment he holds her yet. Then gently he lowers her into the
   chair again._

      [_He kneels beside her. He speaks in a suffocated voice._

  VALENTINOIS: Ay, you have conquered now!

      [_A sob bursts from him. His head sinks on to the arm he is
   resting on the table’s edge._

      [_A trumpet is heard in the distance, and faintly thereafter the
   sound of march music._

                              SLOW CURTAIN
                              END OF PLAY




                               PRINTED AT
                         THE CHAPEL RIVER PRESS
                           KINGSTON, SURREY.




                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES


Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.

Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.

Inconsistent font usage in stage directions has been corrected.

[The end of _The Tyrant_ by Rafael Sabatini]