But of this, his companions, at least, were all unconscious, for they filled the pause with a murmur of angry confirmation.

Francesco wrinkled his brow, and sighed.
"I am--alas!--most fully conscious of this danger you speak of.
But--what do you expect of me?
Why bear me your grievance?
I am no statesman." "Here is no statesman needed, lord.

It is a soldier Babbiano requires; a martial spirit to organise an army against the invasion that must come--that is coming already.

In short, Lord Count, we need such a warrior as are you.

What man is there in all Italy--or, indeed, what woman or what child--that has not heard of the prowess of the Lord of Aquila?
Your knightly deeds in the wars 'twixt Pisa and Florence, your feats of arms and generalship in the service of the Venetians, are matters for the making of epic song." "Messer Fabrizio!" murmured Paolo, seeking to restrain his eulogistic interlocutor, what time a faint tinge crept into his bronzed cheeks.