There had been a rising and a bloody battle at Perugia, Falcone informed
us. An attempt had been made to overthrow the rule there of Pier Luigi
Farnese, Duke of Castro, the pope's own abominable son. For some months my
father had been enjoying the shelter of the Perugians, and he had repaid
their hospitality by joining them and bearing arms with them in the
ill-starred blow they struck for liberty. They had been crushed in the
encounter by the troops of Pier Luigi, and my father had been among the
slain.

And well was it for him that he came by so fine and merciful an end,
thought I, when I had heard the tale of horrors that had been undergone by
the unfortunates who had fallen into the hands of Farnese.

My mother heard him to the end without any sign of emotion. She sat there,
cold and impassive as a thing of marble, what time Fra Gervasio--who was my
father's foster-brother, as you shall presently learn more fully--sank his
head upon his arm and wept like a child to hear the piteous tale of it.
And whether from force of example, whether from the memories that came to
me so poignantly in that moment of a fine strong man with a brown, shaven
face and a jovial, mighty voice, who had promised me that one day we should
ride together, I fell a-weeping too.

When the tale was done, my mother coldly gave orders that Falcone be cared
for, and went to pray, taking me with her.

Oftentimes since have I wondered what was the tenour of her prayers that
night. Were they for the rest of the great turbulent soul that was gone
forth in sin, in arms against the Holy Church, excommunicate and foredoomed
to Hell? Or were they of thanksgiving that at last she was completely