"Your honour?" asked Arensberg, in alarm.

"Yes, my honour, sir knight. You would have me -so saith yon document - admit that I had been beguiled by the Duke of Urbino. You would have me admit that I allowed my vigilance for the safety of the Holy Father to go to sleep. You would have me, in order that the pious conclave (pious indeed!) of the Cardinals might be saved the odium of conspiring against the Pontiff-you would have me sign what would brand, for ever, the name of an illustrious friend. You would have me, like a puling coward, crouch as a penitent, though God wotteth I dare stand erect as a man. You would have me hand down to my child-mayhap to yourself with her-a name forsworn and . . . and . ...

The vehemence of this effort burst the life-strings of the gallant Marchese della Scala. He fell back before he could complete his brave soul's protest, and but a short time elapsed ere both Bianca and Arensberg were bending over his corpse; both so agitated that neither of them could speak.

66

Farewell, farewell to all-to all my hopes!" murmured Arensberg to himself. "Bianca, henceforth, must—yes, she must-think that I have tempted her father's honour; and though the thought may cross her that it was for her sake, that will make the breach between us the wider."

Oh! how sorrowfully, with what an unmanned look did he leave the room! Speak he could not to Bianca. Overtures of aid and sympathy he dared not

make. Intuition told him that those overtures would have been returned with scorn.

Yet, though he left the chamber with his soul plunged into utter hopelessness, he had self-command enough to urge the entry of the attendants, and to stimulate their ardour by his pledges of reward.

What had been the anxieties of his young brother Rupert, of his esquire, of his followers, during his prolonged absence—they all having been waiting without St. Angelo; what they were, now that he returned to them looking worn and sad, absent in mind: all this we must leave to our readers to imagine.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE passionate remonstrance, with which the Marchese della Scala closed his life, will be understood upon our stating that the Pope, in concession to the entreaties of Count Arensberg-whom, as a favourite servant of Frederick of Saxony, the Pontiff was especially anxious to conciliate-had issued an order for the liberation of the Marchese. But, sad to say, true to his policy Leo had, without the Count's knowledge, appended a condition. That condition insisted that the prisoner should admit the collusion (if not more) of the Duke d'Urbino with the conspiracy against the Pontiff's life; and, moreover, should allow that he himself had been, though unknowingly, one of the tributaries to the crime.

All this was natural to the policy of the Papal Court, and peculiarly so to the habit of Pope Leo. Although, as we have said before, he chiefly regarded his throne as one of temporal dignity, there was within him, nevertheless, a fastidious wish to protect that throne against the grave slanders of the world. And he shunned, as a fearful evil, the idea going abroad, that

the priests of God's inner sanctuaries should ever have conspired against their highest and their holiest official.

This will explain much that would otherwise remain inexplicable, in regard to the behaviour of the Pontiff towards his ancient and faithful soldier, the Marchese della Scala,

About the year of our Lord 1311, Dante, at one of those crises in his most chequered and most tumultuous life, found solace and hospitality with Cane della Scala, then the imperial Vicar of Verona, one who had been ever a most deeply-pledged Ghibelline. From Can Grande there sprang another branch-that, namely, of which the ill-fortuned Marchese was the head. Nearly two centuries had elapsed since Cane della Scala had distinguished it by his bold and brave advocacy and support of the interest of the cause of Henry VII. of Germany. Since then various offshoots from this great family had abjured the political faith of their forefathers; and, aroused up to that passion for independence of which the Italian mind has ever, and most righteously, been susceptible, the Marchese had, among many others of his house, become the friend and soldier of the political Popedom, in opposition to the anti-Italian assumptions of the German Cæsars.

But, brave though he had been in the field, wise and transparently honest though he had been in the council-chamber, his numerous scars, his sagacious counsels, availed nothing with the Pontiff, in comparison with the value of making him and the Duke d'Urbino scapegoats, so that Europe might become

oblivious of the treachery of the Church against God's Vicar.

Thence it was that, though urged by his own humanities of heart (and Pope Leo had them, and indulged them, too, to an extent that shows how warmth of soul can triumph over the frigidity of a system), and though urged, nay implored, by Count Arensberg, by Raffaello, by the Chigi, he never would consent to a full exculpation of his noble prisoner.

Then, we must add, Pope Leo was distinguished even among the Popes for chicanery. And so it was, that while giving a free pardon to the Marchese, the Pontiff inserted those conditions at which he must have known, or ought to have known, any and every honest soldier would revolt.

His

During his passage from St. Angelo to his own lodgings, Count Arensberg uttered not a word. brother Rupert, and his esquire, Baron Mellendorf,

saw he was in trouble; and anxious though they were to know the cause of it, both preserved a respectful silence.

One, and only one incident drew the Count out from himself. It was this:

On casting his usual soldier's glance over his little troop, his eye detected a form amongst them which he had not discerned on his approach to the castle.

It was that of a priest, and yet his habit was so torn, and his whole appearance was so disordered, that the Count was struck with pity, although so heavy and so absorbing were his own woes.