and of neighbouring lords becoming vassals to his might. He saw himself
wresting Romagna mile by mile from the sway of the ribald Borgia, hunting
him to the death as he was wont to hunt the boar in the marshes of
Commachio, or driving him into the very Vatican to seek shelter within
his father's gates--the last strip of soil that he would leave him to
lord it over. He dreamt of a Babbiano courted by the great republics,
and the honour of its alliance craved by them that they might withstand
the onslaughts of French and Spaniard. All this he saw in that fleeting
vision of his, and Temptation caught his martial spirit in a grip of
steel. And then another picture rose before his eyes. What would he do
in times of peace? His was a soul that pined in palaces. He was born to
the camp, and not to the vapid air of courts. In exchange for this power
that was offered him what must he give? His glorious liberty. Become
their lord in many things, to be their slave in more. Nominally to rule,
but actually to be ruled, until, should he fail to do his rulers' will,
there would be some night another meeting such as this, in which men
would plot to encompass his downfall and to supplant him as he was
invited to supplant Gian Maria. Lastly, he bethought him of the man
whose power he was bidden to usurp. His own cousin, his father's
sister's son, in whose veins ran the same blood as in his own.

He raised his head at last, and met those anxious faces on which the
fitful light was casting harsh shadows. The pale ghost of a smile
hovered for a second on the corners of his stern mouth.

"I thank you, sirs, for the honour you have done me," he made answer
slowly, "an honour of which I fear I am all unworthy."

In strenuous chorus their voices rose to contradict him.