The Rising Storm

be.

It was this which made Isabella insist on stopping at an art dealer's on their way back to Pisani's, in order to buy him a picture as the foundation of his new hobby. By great good fortune they found a small head and shoulders of Saint Lucia, which was Isabella's second name. It was a beautiful little thing of about nine inches by six; the Saint was wearing a robe of brilliant blue, and behind her head there was portrayed a fairy-like scene of woods and a mountain with a tiny castle perched on top. The dealer swore that it was an original Andrea del Sarto, and wanted a hundred and twenty gold sequins for it. Roger demurred at such extravagance, and when Isabella overruled his protests, he would at least have attempted to beat the man down; but she said she would not sully her gift by haggling about its price, and told the dealer to carry it to their lodging, where she would pay him what he asked.

On their second day in Florence they went out again early in the morning to see the famous sculpture of Niobe striving to protect her children from the murderous shafts of Apollo; and still more pictures. But at eleven o'clock they tore themselves away from a gallery contain­ing some of the finest examples of Benvenuto Cellini's gem-encrusted goldsmith's work, and hurried back to Pisani's, in case a message had arrived for Roger giving him an appointment with Monsignor Ricci.

However, no word had yet come from Signor Zucchino, and to Roger's intense annoyance he had to waste the whole afternoon kicking his heels in their lodgings without hearing from the major-domo. It was not until he and Isabella were sitting down to supper that a messenger at last arrived, bearing a brief note which said:

Monsignor Ricci has been much engaged on affairs of State since his return at midday; but he will grant you a few minutes if you attend upon him at half-past eleven tonight.

The script was in Italian but Isabella understood enough of that language to translate it, and Roger sighed with relief when he learned its purport. After they had supped they ordered another bottle of wine, and sat up making fond plans for the future over it until it was time for him to set out for the palace. Then, having kissed Isabella good night half a dozen times, he buckled on his sword, drew his cloak about him, and went out into the darkened streets of the ancient city.

A faint moonlight now lit the stone facades of the great mansions, making them even more impressive, and as Roger walked briskly along the narrow, cobbled streets he marvelled once again that so small a country, with a bare million inhabitants, should have proved capable of producing such lasting memorials to the' greatness of its rulers; when the Kings of France, with twenty times their resources, had failed to achieve one-tenth of the grandeur of the Medicis.

As he crossed the bridge over the Arno he was thinking of Isabella, and the picture of her patron saint that she had bought him that morning. The thought occurred to him that at a not too distant date they must return to Florence for a delayed honeymoon. She seemed to derive as much pleasure from its unique treasures as himself, and in no country except his own had he found such congenial surroundings. Even if the people grumbled about the innovations introduced by their Austrian Grand Duke, they seemed remarkably carefree. There were no midnight beggars in the streets, or outcasts trying to snatch a few hours' uneasy slumber in the shadow of the doorways. The city now slept, its citizens serene, untroubled, secure within their homes. On the far side of the river he entered the street leading to the palace.

Suddenly a group of dark, swiftly moving figures emerged from the shadows. Roger glimpsed a patient mule being held by one as the others rushed upon him. Springing back he grasped his sword-hilt. His shout was drowned in the scamper of running feet. He had drawn his weapon no more than six inches from its scabbard before his arm was caught in a fierce grip. Next second he was overborne and hurled headlong into the gutter.

CHAPTER TEN

THE HOODED MEN

As Roger went down he kicked out hard. His right foot caught one of his attackers in the crutch, drawing from him a screech of pain. But at least three men had charged in simultaneously and two of them fell right on top of him. Clenching his first he smashed it into the face of one and, with a heave of his body, threw off the other.

Since the age of eighteen he had been just over six feet in height, but in the past three years he had filled out; so although his slender-boned hips still gave him a fine figure he was now a fully grown man with a broad chest and powerful shoulders. As he never lost an opportunity to practise fencing and often spent many hours a day in the saddle he had no superfluous fat and his muscles were as hard as whipcord. Moreover he had a cool head, great agility and, in a fight such as this, was never handicapped by the least scruples about using unorthodox methods to get the better of his enemies. So, had he not been taken completely by surprise, three or four underfed street roughs would have found that in attacking him they had caught a Tartar.

Even as it was, he had succeeded in inflicting grievous injury on two of them in as many seconds, and as he rolled over to get clear of the squirming body he had just thrown off he kicked out again backwards. His heel met solid flesh and elicited a spate of curses.

Thrusting one hand against the cobbles he gave a violent twist of his body and scrambled to his knees. To his dismay he realized that his attackers numbered five at least. Only one lay hors de combat, groaning in the middle of the narrow street. The two others who had knocked him down were staggering to their feet on either side of him; a fourth, who had been holding the mule, was running to their assistance, and the scraping of boots on stone behind him gave warning that one or more of the band were about to take him from the rear.

Once more his right hand grasped his sword hilt. If only he had time to draw it and get his back against the wall, he felt that he might yet succeed in beating off the gang of bravos until the sounds of the conflict brought the Watch to his assistance.

But in a moment his hopes were shattered. A man behind him threw a cloak over his head. Another seized his arms and wrenched them pain­fully together till his elbows met in the small of his back. Instantly a dozen hands were grasping him. Someone tied the cloak round his neck, so that his head was encased in a stuffy bag, and his shouts for help were muffled. His arms were tied together with a piece of cord. Still he kicked out, but he was borne to the ground, and while one man sat upon his legs another secured his ankles. Then he was rolled over and over sideways upon other cloaks that had been spread out on the ground, till he was encased like a mummy in a roll of carpet.

Next, he felt himself lifted up, carried a few yards and dumped face down across the back of the mule, with his head dangling on one side of the animal and his feet on the other. The cursing, panting and excited exclamations of his captors had now ceased, and in silence the party sent off along the street.

The blood was running to Roger's head, and in addition he found it extremely difficult to breathe, so for him to think at all was by no means easy. But as he gasped for air in the stifling folds of the cloak, various half-formed thoughts came to him. He had been set upon by robbers! Yet they had made no. attempt to take his jewels or money from him. If they were not robbers what possible motive could they have for attacking him ? Perhaps they had mistaken him for someone else ? Where was he being taken? Perhaps they were robbers and meant to hold him to ransom? Anyhow it seemed clear that they intended him no bodily harm, as not one of them had drawn a sword or stiletto during the struggle. He had sustained no injury, at all. That at least was much to be thankful for.

At this point lack of air made him feel as though his head was going to burst, and with the steady jolting of the mule alone still impinging on his mind he lapsed into semi-unconsciousness.

When he came to someone was pouring Grappa down his throat. The fiery spirit jerked him back into full possession of his senses. He had been unwrapped and untied and was seated in a chair with his head lolling back, staring up at a low, vaulted ceiling of plain stone with Roman arches.

With a gasp he thrust aside the glass that was being held to his mouth and sat up. Two rough-looking fellows with close-cropped hair, who were dressed in leather jerkins and looked like men-at-arms, stepped away from him, and he saw at once that this stone-flagged cellar was no brigands' den. Yet, immediately opposite him, on the far side of a long table, was a sight calculated to make the boldest heart contract in swift alarm.

Beyond it sat nine silent figures. All were clad in loose black robes that entirely hid their ordinary clothes and individualities. From their shoulders the robes merged into high-pointed hoods, having in them only mouth and eye slits.

Roger's first thought was that he had fallen into the hands of the Inquisition; but he was quick to recall that in a further conversation with Signor Pisani the previous day his landlord had told him that the Grand Duke had deprived the Holy Office of much of its powers in Tuscany, and that it was now only permitted to act as an