wounded knight."

"A knight he?" gibed Gonzaga. "A thief more likely, a prowling
masnadiero. What is your name?" he roughly asked the Count.

Drawing himself a little away from Valentina, and reclining entirely upon
his elbow, Francesco motioned him with a wave of the hand to come no
nearer.

"I beg, lady, that you will bid your pretty page stand back a little. I
am still faint, and his perfumes overpower me."

Under the mask of the polite request Gonzaga detected the mocking,
contemptuous note, and it gave fuel to his anger.

"I am no page, fool," he answered, then clapping his hands together, he
raised his voice to shout--"Olá, Beltrame! To me!"

"What would you do?" cried the lady, rising to confront him.

"Carry this ruffian in bonds to Urbino, as is my duty."

"Sir, you may wound your pretty hands in grasping me," replied the Count,
in chill indifference.

"Ah! You would threaten me with violence, vassal?" cried the other,
retreating some paces farther as he spoke. Beltrame!" he called again.
"Are you never coming? A voice answered him from the thicket, and with a
clank of steel a half-dozen men flung themselves into the glade.