Well, it might be so now--now that the times were warlike, and this Francesco was such a man as shone at his best in them.

But what manner of companion would this sbirro make in times of peace?
Had he the wit, the grace, the beauty even that was Gonzaga's?
Circumstance, it seemed to him, was here to blame, and he roundly cursed that same Circumstance.

In other surroundings, he was assured that she would not have cast an eye upon Francesco whilst he, himself, was by; and if he recalled their first meeting at Acquasparta, it was again to curse Circumstance for having placed the knight in such case as to appeal to the tenderness that is a part of woman's nature.
He reflected--assured that he was right--that if Francesco had not come to Roccaleone, he might by now have been wed to Valentina; and once wed, he could throw down the bridge and march out of Roccaleone, assured that Gian Maria would not care to espouse his widow, and no less assured that Guidobaldo--who was at heart a kind and clement prince--would be content to let be what was accomplished, since there would be naught gained beyond his niece's widowhood in hanging Gonzaga.

It was the specious argument that had lured him upon this rash enterprise, the hopes that he was confident would have fructified but for the interloping of Francesco.
He stood looking down at the tented plain, with black rage and black despair blotting the beauty from the sunlight of that May morning, and then it came to him that since there was naught to be hoped from his old plans, might it not be wise to turn his attention to new ones that would, at least, save him from hanging?
For he was assured that whatever might betide the others, his own fate was sealed, whether Roccaleone fell or not.

It would be remembered against him that the affair was of his instigating, and from neither Gian Maria nor Guidobaldo might he look for mercy.
And now the thought of extricating himself from his desperate peril turned him cold by its suddenness.