He followed, holding that slender cord, and so, like a beast to the shambles, went I.
Once more they led me into the hall, where the shadows were lengthening in dark contrast to the splashes of sunlight that lingered on the floor, and whose blood-red hue was deepened by the gules of the windows through which it was filtered.
Ramiro was waiting for me, and six of his officers were in attendance.
But, for once, there were no men-at-arms at hand.

On a chair, the one usually occupied by Ramiro, himself, sat Madonna Paola, still in her torn and bedraggled raiment, her face white, her eyes wild as they had been when first she had been haled into Ramiro's presence, some two hours ago, and her features so rigidly composed that it told the tale of the awful self-control she must be exerting--a self-control that might end with a sudden snap that would plunge her into madness.
A wild rage possessed me at sight of her.

Let Ramiro be ruthless and cruel where men were concerned; that was a thing for which forgiveness might be found him.

But that he should submit a lady, delicately nurtured as was Madonna, to such horrors as she had undergone since she had awakened from his sleeping-potion in the Church of San Domenico, was something for which no Hell could punish him condignly.
Ramiro met me with a countenance through the assumed gravity of which I could espy his wicked, infernal mockery peeping forth.
"I deplore your end, Lazzaro Biancomonte," said he slowly, "for you are a brave man, and brave men are rare.

You were worthy of better things, but you chose to cross swords with Ramiro del' Orca, and you have got your death-blow.