Sedately Facino went up the narrow staircase with no word for the young man who followed in uneasy wonder and dread speculation of what was now to follow.
In a fine room that was hung with Flemish tapestries, and otherwise furnished with a richness such as Bellarion had never yet beheld, lighted by great candles in massive gilt candlesticks that stood upon the ground, the masterful Facino dismissed a couple of waiting lackeys, and turned at last to bestow a leisurely scrutiny upon his companion.
“So you have the impudence to call yourself my son,” he said, between question and assertion. “It seems I have more family than I suspected. But I felicitate you on your choice of a father. It remains for you to tell me upon whom I conferred the honour of being your mother.”
He threw himself into a chair, leaving Bellarion standing before him, a sorry figure in his tattered red tunic pulled loosely about him, his flesh showing in the gaps.
“To be frank, my lord, in my anxiety to avoid a violent death I overstated our relationship.”
“You overstated it?” The heavy eyebrows were raised. The humour of the countenance became more pronouncedly sardonic. “Let me judge the extent of this overstatement.”
“I am your son by adoption only.”
Down came the eyebrows in a frown, and all humour passed from the face.
“Nay, now! That I know for a lie. I might have got me a son without knowing it. That is always possible. I was young once, faith, and a little careless of my kisses. But I could scarcely have adopted another man’s child without being aware of it.”
And now Bellarion, judging his man, staked all upon the indolent good-nature, the humorous outlook upon life which he thought to perceive in Facino’s face and voice. He answered him with a studied excess of frankness.
“The adoption, my lord, was mine; not yours.” And then, to temper the impudence of that, he added: “I adopted you, my lord, in my hour of peril and of need, as we adopt a patron saint. My wits were at the end of their resources. I knew not how else to avert the torture and death to which wanton brutality exposed me, save by invoking a name in itself sufficiently powerful to protect me.”
There was a pause in which Facino considered him, half angrily, so that Bellarion’s heart sank and he came to fear that in his bold throw with Fortune he had been defeated. Then Facino laughed outright, yet there was an edge to his laugh that was not quite friendly. “And so you adopted me for your father. Why, sir, if every man could choose his parents …” He broke off. “Who are you, rogue? What is your name?”
“I am called Bellarion, my lord.”
“Bellarion? A queer name that. And what’s your story? Continue to be frank with me, unless you would have me toss you back to the Duke for an impostor.”
At that Bellarion took heart, for the phrase implied that if he were frank this great soldier would befriend him at least to the extent of furthering his escape. And so Bellarion used an utter frankness. He told his tale, which was in all respects the true tale which he had told Lorenzaccio da Trino.
It was, when all is said, an engaging story, and it caught the fancy of the Lord Facino Cane, as Bellarion, closely watching him, perceived.
“And in your need you chose to think that this rider who befriended you was called Facino!” The condottiero smiled now, a little sardonically. “It was certainly resourceful. But this business of the Duke’s dogs? Tell me what happened there.”
Bellarion’s tale had gone no farther than the point at which he had set out from Cigliano on his journey to Pavia. Nor now, in answer to this question, did he mention his adventure in Montferrat and the use he had made there already of Facino’s name, but came straight to the events of that day in the meadows by Abbiategrasso. To this part of his narrative, and particularly to that of Bellarion’s immunity from the fierce dogs, Facino listened in incredulity, although it agreed with the tale he had already heard.
“What patron did you adopt to protect you there?” he asked, between seriousness and derision. “Or did you use magic, as they say.”
“I answered the Duke on that score with more literal truth than he suspected when I told him that dog does not eat dog.”
“How? You pretend that the mere name of Cane … ?”
“Oh, no. I reeked, I stank of dog. The great hound I had ripped up when it was upon me had left me in that condition, and the other hounds scented nothing but dog in me. The explanation, my lord, lies between that and miracle.”
Facino slowly nodded. “And you do not believe in miracles?” he asked.
“Your lordship’s patience with me is the first miracle I have witnessed.”
“It is the miracle you hoped for when you adopted me for your father?”
“Nay, my lord. My hope was that you would never hear of the adoption.”
Facino laughed outright. “You’re a frank rogue,” said he, and heaved himself up. “Yet it would have gone ill with you if I had not heard that a son had suddenly been given to me.” To Bellarion’s amazement the great soldier came to set a hand upon his shoulder, the dark eyes, whose expression could change so swiftly from humour to melancholy, looked deeply into his own. “Your attempt to save Pusterla’s life without counting the risk to yourself was a gallant thing, for which I honour you, and for which you deserve well of me. And they are to
