The Justice of the Duke

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A trumpet blared beneath the walls of Fabriano, and its brazen voice reached the room of the Palazzo, where Cesare Borgia sat measuring distances on a map and casting up calculations. He laid down the compass at the sound, and raised his head, sharp interest written on his lofty countenance.

"Agabito," said he to the elderly man who had been writing diligently at another table, "that will be the Lord of Camerino."

"The same thought was in my mind Magnificent," answered the secretary. Cesare's brows grew knit in thought; his elbow rested on the carved arm of his chair, and his shapely white fingers tugged at his auburn beard. Presently he stirred and sighed.

"Please it God, we come to terms," said he. "I am over-weary of this situation."

"It grows, in truth, very wearisome," murmured Agabito, who considered it one of his duties to paraphrase whatever Cesare might deign to say to him.

The Duke of Romagna's clenched hand fell sharply on the map before him. "To be pinned here by this man whom I have stripped to the last brick of his possessions, whilst I am urgently wanted in the North, whilst every day increases the danger of a coalition against me. Body of God! It is intolerable! We must make an end."

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