In talking with H. Bedford Jones, that well-known reincarnation of Alexandre Dumas, Sr., about doing some work for GOLDEN FLEECE, he made the remark that "many a noble barque, in history, has gone to wreck on the coasts of chance." We caught at the phrase. "There," an exclaimed, "is the subject for a series! Little known historical dramas, great dreams, crafty plots, where some unforeseen pebble stubbed the toe of history!" Maybe our metaphors were mixed, but Mr. Bodford-Jones got the idea, an proved by this, his final story of the series to come—

EVENING AT THE BLACK BULL

MY FRIEND HEBERLEIN comes into my office and calmly settles down and raises hob with my business in a most annoying manner. I can't resist him; no one ran resist him. He has a hypnotic charm that amounts to genius. If he says: "Stop!" the clock on the desk ceases work—he's that kind. When he came in yesterday, I saw at a glance that he was all lit up; not with liquor but with a new idea. He pulled up a chair, fastened his black and glittering eye upon me, and let me have both barrels.

"Harry, I've been looking into history. I'm making a collection of what's positively the most fascinating line of stories you ever heard! You know, a lot of queer things happened that don't get into the history books; odd, trifling matters that changed the course of human events, in a greater or lesser degree. Who knows that, if a man hadn't stopped to shave, Bonaparte would have gone to the guillotine? It's a fact."

"Tell it to the marines," I said crossly. "Here I've got a pile of work——"

"Well, listen!" he said, and with a groan of resignation I listened. "What I've got on my mind right now, is rich stuff. In the middle of the seventeenth century, when Cromwell ruled in England and Mazarin in France, a piddling little unknown robber baron over in Italy changed the whole course of the world's commerce and even history; and it all happened because a scoundrelly Frenchman couldn't keep his hands off a gal! Can you heat that!"

"I don't believe it," was my weak response. Haberlein leaned forward.

"I'll prove it to you. Leghorn, at that time, was one of the greatest free ports in the world, the greatest center of commerce in the Mediterranean; even the Moslem merchants could come there unmolested. The English, however, had settled Leghorn heavily and were in practical control of commerce there. Leghorn was in the territory of Tuscany, ruled by the Grand Duke, one of the last of the old Medici family. Got it?"

I nodded. He shoved aside my papers, spread himself on the desk, and pitched in.

"That's just the background. France hated and feared England; the war for all the commerce of the east was on, but it remained underground. With that in mind, I want you to look at the Italian coast, at the highway north of Leghorn and Florence. I want to make you see the man who was whipping his horse along, riding hell for leather, in a late afternoon. He was only a short distance outside the town of Corthia, for which he was making—"

The magic of that voice persuaded me, moved me. haunted me. The yellow spurting dust of the road, the chestnut trees, the sharp Italian hills, uprose before me. And the man, who with whip and spur urged his lathered, wheezing horse along the curving road.

A little man, ferret-nosed, with very wide shoulders and very long arms, and in his sharp features a peculiar deadly expression. At an inbend of the road, the Tavern of the Black Bull suddenly appeared, and a sigh of relief escaped him.

It was a pleasant inn, to anyone who knew not its evil name, with high oak trees shading the courtyard from the hot Italian sun. A structure half of outward stone, half built into the steep hillside.

The staggering horse cluttered to a halt in the courtyard, the rider slid down. No grooms came forth; no one was in sight save the innkeeper, a burly man who stood in the entrance and emitted a cheery but wary word of greeting.

"Welcome, Ser Nicolo! Whether pursuing or pursued, you've come no the right place! Are you followed?"

"No, blast you! Do I have to be a fugitive because I'm riding hard?" The little man not so little now the the stood on his feet, stumbled stiffly across the stones. "A fresh horse, quickly! I must reach Duke Raymond of Corthia at once!"

"You'll do that without killing another horse." "The duke will be here at any moment; he's overdue now. He's riding out from town on business."

"The usual business, eh? Good!" Ser Nicolo clapped the other on the shoulder. "Inside! You're going to have business and plenty of it, in another hour or less."

In the vast, gloomy ordinary of that sinister inn, Ser Nicolo settled himself comfortably at a table, opposite the innkeeper.

"What news?" the latter demanded. Ser Nicolo gulped down his wine and grunted.

"For Raymond, not for you."

"Careful, Ser Nicolo!" said the burly man. "You may be the most famous spadassin in Italy, your stiletto the highest priced and surest but after all, you're a hired bravo. This is Duke Raymond's tavern, and I'm in his confidence."

Ser Nieolo grinned faintly. "True. News? Well, Cromwell rules in England, Mazarin rules France for the boy Louis, and Raymond rules in Corthia. A fine weapon, a fine gem, a fine woman—Raymond welcomes any of the three. I bring him jewels and a woman—the daughter of a Genoese merchant and her lover, a puling Frenchman. They'll be here in an hour. Enough said?"

"Enough, aye! Hello, here's Francesco now; his job must be finished."

SOMEWHERE in the cavernous recesses of the place, whose immense oak beams were black with age and smoke, a massive door creaked open. A low, shuddering sound echoed faintly; the groans of a man in mortal agony. A swaggering figure came forward to the table, a stout fellow whose bare forearms and leathern apron were splashed with ominous crimson; he flung down a folded parchment.

"There it is, signed and sealed and witnessed," he said. The innkeeper took it.

"A good thing for you Raymond is late! You've been slow."

"I had to string up the stubborn devil three times and then go to work on him with hot pincers," said Francesco. "But he gave in at last. He can still walk."

"Give him a horse and turn him loose. Then tell Maria to prepare the big upper chamber; guests are coming. Is the meal ready for Duke Raymond?"

"Aye. And speak of the devil—there he is!"

A clatter of hooves from the courtyard, a ringing, impetuous voice; the host went rushing out, grooms appeared from nowhere, and the Black Bull took on life. Ser Nicolo gulped hastily at his wine and stood up to meet the man he served.

Raymond of Corthia strode in, bidding his half-dozen guards make themselves scarce in the kitchens. He took the parchment, glanced at it, and tucked it away with a nod. He looked at Ser Nicolo, and came eagerly to him, like a hawk pouncing.

"What's this? You, Nicolo? Corpo di Baccho! I thought you were in Genoa!"

Ser Nicolo bowed; greatest assassin in Italy he might be, but to Raymond of Corthia he was mightily respectful, and with reason.

Ruler of a tiny hill-estate that was no more than a town, with a few square miles outside it, Raymond was slim and straight and powerful; no man could stand before him with wit or weapons, and none had ever found mercy at his hands. His dark features were all alive with a cruel and mocking energy. No woman, it was said, could resist his gay spirit and his crafty tongue. He was feared, dreaded, hated, from the Alps to Tarentum, and no one dared lift finger against him. From Venice to Naples, the threads of political intrigue were in his hands, and he pulled them shrewdly; ambassadors were sent to him as to a king, for his counsel and help. He was behind the scenes on many a stage, but was still ruled by three passions greater to him than any ambition.

"So! Something's up, eh?" He swung a chair around, sat down, poured wine and sipped it. "Weapons, jewels or women?"

Ser Nicolo repeated his story. Raymond listened; he was clad all in black, with a bulk to his shoulders that hinted at chain mail under the black velvet.

"I didn't see the woman; I hear she's fair and young." concluded Ser Nicolo. "But the two of them skipped out with all the old man's jewels—the finest lot of gems in all Genoa. I hear. They're headed for Rome. The Frenchman is some sort of soldier; he speaks Italian."

Raymond frowned slightly. "Hm! That's curious. The Grand Duke of Tuscany has been fool enough to disregard my advice, and let Mazarin cozen him into turning the English out of Leghorn; do away with all free trade and put Leghorn into the hands of French merchants. I've been expecting some courier from Paris—well. well, this would hardly be the man, if he's running away with a Genoese damsel! Nicolo, we'll handle this little matter ourselves, you and I."

"Gladly, my lord," and Ser Nicolo smiled in his thin face. "Their coachman is my man. That leaves the Frenchman alone. Shall I dispose of him ?"

"Not before I give the signal," Raymond glanced up, as the innkeeper approached. "Dinner? Not yet. In half an hour; I'll have two guests to join me. Get the board ready. Keep those men of mine out of sight, and don't let them drink too much. I may need them. Bring a ?ask or two of my own wine. Ha, Nicolo! You know steel. Look at this! A gift from the Grand Duke at Florence, to make up to me for disregarding my counsel. The old fool! Think what the Medici have come to, that such a man should rule Tuscany!"

He whipped out his sword from its sheath and Nicolo took the long straight blade, eyeing it shrewdly. A beautiful piece of steel, with the watered markings of damascened work, inlaid along one side of the blade with an Arabic inscription in gold. The eyes of Ser Nicolo glittered, and Raymond laughed softly.

"You like it? Then, in testimony of my love for you, keep it!" Raymond unbuckled the belt, passed it and the scabbard across the table. "No, I insist! You need a sword, Nicolo. My dagger is all I need."

He touched the extremely long poniard at his right hip. Ser Nicolo gulped out his thanks for the princely gift and waxed warm in his enthusiasm. The eyes of Raymond dwelt upon the man for an instant, a touch of cruel amusement in their dark depths, then flitted to the table that was being set with linen and silver and Venetian glass—strange treasures to find in a roadside inn! But then, the Black Bull was a strange place.

A MAN from outside came running in; the coach was approaching and men were posted to stop it if need were. Raymond rose and sauntered outside. There was a creaking, a rumble and a squeak of brakes, a banging of hooves; a coach with four horses appeared and swung into the inn-yard. The driver was a gangling fellow with the scarred features of a bravo, and shaggy red hair dangling about his cars; a rogue, thought Raymond, and a rascal.

The coach door opened. A man in dark but handsome attire leaped out and burst into vehement French, to which the driver replied; master and man. Raymond gathered. As the driver pointed out, one horse was lame. Perhaps another could be procured here. The Frenchman turned to the innkeeper, who swore that extra horses were rare as green cheese from the moon. Then Raymond stepped forward, with his graceful, gallant bow.

"Your pardon!" he said, in his most charming way. "I'm named Messire Raymond, I'm a gentleman of Corthia, and if you'll do me the honor of joining me at dinner, it'll give me the greatest pleasure in the world! The food here is superb, I assure you. The beds are like those of the blessed saints in Paradise. The sun is sinking—why go farther and fare worse?"

The Frenchman's face cleared. A face that looked young but was not; a face outwardly handsome, but to Raymond's shrewd eye full of craft and guile and braggadocio.

"Why, messire, thank you!" he answered in Italian. "I'm the Sieur de Castelmore, a gentleman of Gascony, traveling with my wife to Rome. If this place is safe—"

"I know of none safer in all Italy," said Raymond, smiling. "Let your wife join us, and our happiness is complete! Perhaps she'd like to judge of the accommodations. Landlord! Your best room for my friends; they'll join me at dinner, so prepare accordingly!"

The graceful assurance of Raymond settled everything, as it usually did. A man used to having his way, nearly always has it.

The Frenchman, he noted, wore a long, plain rapier; then he observed nothing else, as Castelmore handed out his traveling companion and presented Raymond to her.

She was tired; as she said frankly, they had traveled fast and hard since leaving Genoa. Yet she was radiant, lovely as a flower, so instinct with youth and character and nobility that Raymond was actually stupefied for a moment. When he stooped his lips to her fingers, did they gently press his own? When he looked into her eyes, did a ?ash of appeal strike out at him? He was not certain; but for an instant his heart leaped high. Debauched, depraved, callous as he was to all fine things, here in this girl's face and eyes and voice was something that stirred forgotten memories within him.

He conducted them to the stairs. She was holding a leather casket beneath her arm, as though it were precious. Beneath the dark coat of Castelmore was a bulge, as though something precious lay there. Promising to be back in five minutes, they departed with the host to seek their room, and Raymond went striding back to Ser Nicolo.

"My good Nicolo, you're positively a fool for once," he snapped. "That man is a scoundrel; he looks young and is not. The lady is an angel! Ten to one he's tricked her by promises of marriage, into leaving home with her jewels. She's no common merchant's daughter, if I know anything of character."

Ser Nicolo shrugged. "Her jewels, and herself as well, may be better in your keeping than in his, then."

"Right. Keep your eye on me. When I overturn my glass, go to work on the rogue and blood your new blade. Mind you, no foolishness! Kill him and have done."

"With all my heart," said Ser Nicolo, his lip twisting wolfishly. Killing was his trade.

From the hidden kitchens in the rear, which were used in summer, came fowl and meat fresh from the spits, fruit of the earth and the tree, bread and sauces galore; a very banquet to be heaped along the board, with rare wines from the private stores of Raymond. Outside, the setting sun reddened and died. Inside, silver candelabra were brought out and set along the table, blazing with candles of the ?nest wax that gently perfumed the air as they burned.

Ser Nicolo departed to wash. The burly host came up to Duke Raymond with a low word.

"Lord, next time you have a fine sword to give away, remember me."

"What?" Raymond looked up at him and suddenly broke into laughter. "But not such a sword as that, my honest friend! That was a gift from the Grand Duke Ferdinand himself; and when the Medici send gifts, it pays to look well at them. Ser Nicolo, unluckily for himself, did not look too well; and, still more unluckily, has wormed himself into too many of my secrets, and his sold one or two of them to the Duke of Mantua."

DONNA LUISA, as the girl was named, looked more radiant than ever; she had donned a dress of sky-blue velvet sewn with seed pearls, which rarely became her delicate, fragile loveliness, her pale golden hair and unafraid blue eyes. Raymond introduced Ser Nicolo as a gentleman of Padua, and the four sat down to the board, Castelmore and his lady opposite Raymond and Ser Nicolo. If the Frenchman was not amazed at sight of the Venetian glasses, a treasure such as only kings could know, the girl certainly was.

With every passing moment, Raymond's admiration became more profound. The girl was more French than Italian; she had an amazing grasp of practical things, even politics, and her swift intelligence delighted him. Talking, he learned she had spent six months in Paris, with the family of Cardinal Mazarin. Her father, it seemed, had known Mazarin. Why had she left Paris? At his question, she hesitated, slightly confused.

"The customs, the life—well, it was distasteful." Her clear, pure eyes rested upon him. In them he caught another flash of appeal, almost of terror. "There, they think all women are alike, given to loose ways—"

"Come, come, women were made for love!" intervened Castelmore. He did not appreciate Raymond's intense interest in the girl; he made the fact plain. So, upon a smile, Raymond suddenly turned all his attention to the Gascon, with subtle flattery.

"You've been in Paris? At court. perhaps? Yes, you have the manner of a courtier. Tell me, what's the gossip about the plans between our Grand Duke and Mazarin—putting Leghorn into French hands? Come, come, it's no secret here! I know all about it. and so do you."

The wine was ardent, and Castelmore was presently persuaded to talk. He had thought the new treaty was a state secret, but since it was not—

"It's a tremendous stroke of business!" he exclaimed. "For centuries Leghorn has been a free port. The English are securely entrenched there. Now that'll be changed; out they go, and the Dutch as well! It means that the entire balance of trade and commerce in the Mediterranean will be altered, will be swung to France!"

"It means more than that," Duke Raymond said softly. "It means war! The English will stir up Venice, Rome and other states against Tuscany. The French will go to war. Armies will be marching through Italy—and I do not like that. It will be bad business for me. I should like to stop this treaty."

The Gascon bellowed with laughter. "You, stop the diplomacy of France? That's a good one! You, change the plans of Mazarin? That's rich! No, no, my friend! The Cardinal has already arranged with your Grand Duke, has approved the proposals, has drafted with his own hand the final terms! Once approved by your Grand Duke, the French envoy in Florence will settle the matter and draw up the treaty. Then the fat's in the fire, eh? And you talk of stopping it! As well stop the finger of destiny!"

"Perhaps," said Duke Raymond, smiling. "even that is not beyond my power." and with his hand he knocked over his priceless Venetian glass, and broke it.

Just what happened was not very clear, at least to the staring, bewildered. quivering Donna Luisa; but to the cynically amused Raymond, it was clear as daylight. Castelmore, like all Gascons, was a swelling fount of braggadocio. Ser Nicolo was gentle, but terrible and deadly as a viper. Words rose high, and Ser Nicolo slapped the Gascon across the face; with this, steel scraped out of scabbard.

Donna Luisa cried frantic protest, but Raymond's fingers clamped down on her wrist, his smiling, intent eyes pierced into hers, his voice gripped at her.

"Quiet, madonna, quiet! He is not your husband. Didn't you ask to be relieved of him? Well, keep your mouth shut and see what happens."

What happened was that honor demanded blood; and all was done very courteously, as between gentlemen. At Duke Raymond's suggestion, the two dotted doublets and went to the wide hearth, before the great spits that were not used in summer; and, again at his word, the steel crossed and clanged. Silent, pale as death, the girl watched.

The art of fence was not, in this day, greatly practiced. It was cut and come again. sword in one hand, dagger in the other; steel was made for killing, not for the light fantasy of fencing. The Gaston was a shrewd, strong, masterful swordsman, but the eye of Raymond saw that Ser Nicolo, with his long arms and nimble skill, was the better man at this business.

THEY fought, with mounting flame of fierce rage, with clash of steel and rasp of hot oaths-and suddenly there was a snap, a clang, a wild cry. Ser Nicole's blade flew asunder; the Gascon's long steel drove past his guarding poniard, drove through his throat, and stood out a span behind the nape of his neck.

"Ah!" observed Duke Raymond, on the sudden silence. "I was right. That gold inlay did extend too far through the steel; it's very lucky I was not using that sword myself! That is, lucky for me. Unlucky, let us say, for the Grand Duke, who gave it to me."

He glanced around. The innkeeper was standing among the shadows, watching the proceedings. At a slight gesture from Raymond, he disappeared.

Castelmore, panting, freed his weapon. He wiped it and slid it into his scabbard.

"The devil!" he exclaimed. "Now I've killed the rascal!"

"You certainly have," said Raymond coolly. "And there's a law in Corthia that anyone who kills a man in duel, is hanged by the neck until he's very, very dead."

The Gascon stared at him from bloodshot eyes.

"It was forced upon me!" he burst out. "Besides, no such law applies to me. I'm not a subject of Corthia. I enjoy diplomatic immunity! I bear a message from the court of France to the Grand Duke of Tuscany! Letters to the Grand Duke himself!"

"So I thought," said Raymond pleasantly. "It's nice to have the question settled. But all the same, the law applies to you."

There was a stir in the shadowed recesses of the great room. Figures appeared; armed men came forward. Two of them held pistols, and advanced upon either side of the Gascon, and the pistols were cocked.

"Your sword, messire," said a third, coming up behind Castelmore.

The latter knew himself trapped and lost. He glared, helpless; he found frantic voice.

"I thought there was something queer about all this! Who are you? Who are these men? What does it all mean?"

Raymond smiled. "It means that the law of Corthia is enforced, for I am the law—I, Duke Raymond of Corthia! Take him outside and hang him, and do it quickly. But first, give me the folded packet that is under his shirt."

The packet of papers was given him. Donna Luisa, staring at him with eyes of horror, uttered one shrill cry of protest and appeal—it ended in agasp, and she fell back in her chair, in a dead faint.

The Gascon, bellowing curses, was dragged out. Raymond glanced at the innkeeper.

"Where is that man of mine, Mario, the scrivener? Drunk, as usual?"

"Well on the road, lord."

"Hold his head in the horse-trough, sober him. send him here."

Cutting with his stiletto the silk cord bound about the documents, Raymond laid them out. Here was the passport of Sieur de Castelmore, a lengthy vellum signed in the sprawling boyish hand of the French king. Here were other documents in Italian, which had been sent to Mazarin from Florence; these were sealed again with the Cardinal's seal. And lastly was a letter addressed to the Grand Duke in the Cardinal's hand, also sealed with Mazarin's seal. Raymond eyed them, and reflected, half aloud.

"Hm! Suppose I turn all these over to the Venetians or the English—at least, threaten to do so? The Grand Duke might or might not be forced to give up the scheme. He's a stubborn old devil, though, and these Medici are all tricky—hm! No, the safest way is to make him so utterly and absolutely furious at the worthy Cardinal Mazarin that he'll drop the whole affair."

A spluttering, dripping, white faced fiigure shambled forward; this was the scribe, Mario, once a clever man, now an arrant rogue. Two others came in, lifted the body of Ser Nicolo, and bore it away.

Raymond rose, quafied his wine, and stooped above the figure of the unconscious girl. Admiration glowed in his eyes. He leaned down and gently brushed her cheek with his lips, and straightened up.

"Is she not a precious, lovely thing, Mario? Like a tender flower. She's lost a poor lover this night, and gained a better one; truly, the dispensations of Providence are wonderful! Well, well, to business. You have vellum, I think, and ink, and brains? We need them, Mario. We've used your clever brains often, and now must use them again."

"At—at your service, lord," fumbled out the scrivener. Duke Raymond picked up the sealed letter.

"Remove the outer seal very carefully, without breaking it, so we can use it again. This letter is doubtless in the hand of a secretary; Cardinal Mazarin is an Italian, and it will be written in Italian, being for the eye of the Grand Duke himself. Now, get to work. There'll be an inner seal, so be mindful of that also; it will bear the Lilies of France, and we must be very careful of such precious flowers. Copy all the preamble of the letter; when you reach the body of it, bring them both to me and I'll dictate what's to be said."

MARIO took the vellum and departed. Duke Raymond pocketed the other documents, and with a sigh of satisfaction, laid aside the matter temporarily. He went again to the girl, lifted her head, and poured a swallow of wine between her lips. She choked, and sat up, staring around. Then, meeting his eyes, she shrank in sudden memory.

"No, no—it must have been a dream! Where is he?"

"Hanged," said Raymond amiably. "And good riddance to you, also to the world."

"But you—you!" She stared wild eyed, her bosom rising and falling to sharp breaths. "You can't be that frightful man, that beast, of whom all Italy has heard! You can't be Duke Raymond; the murderer, the ravisher, the soulless betrayer of everything and everyone! The brother of Satan himself, they call him!"

"No, my dear, no. If I were Satan's brother, then I'd assuredly be an angel! However, I'm Raymond of Corthia, and I love you."

She started. "Love? Oh, you foul beast!"

"Ah, but listen!" said he, and began to speak very earnestly, of himself and his life and the charges against him; of good and evil, of lust and of love, and of many things beside.

Now, there was this about Raymond of Corthia: By the magic of his tongue he had the power of charming man, woman or beast, and could make white seem any color he desired, and could bring tears to the sternest eyes. When he was excommunicate and with a price of ten thousand scudi on his head for the murder of his brother, did he not steal unknown into Rome, gain audience with the Holy Father, and in half an hour convince him that Raymond of Corthia was an innocent man? And it is well known how he cozened the Duke of Milan, who had wounded and captured him, into becoming for a little while his greatest friend and ally.

Thus, it might be expected that this guileless girl would straightway yield to his magic and, like all other women, become his loving victim; but to his great astonishment she did not.

True, she became quiet, calm, thoughtful; she lost her resentment and horror; she even smiled a little and suffered the touch of his hand on hers, and sipped her wine. Yet, when he looked into her eyes, Raymond found there something cool and beautiful and assured, which entirely baffled him. It was like a piece of shining mail which the keenest sword could not pierce.

"I've heard many terrible things about you, Duke Raymond," she said quietly, when he paused. "It's said that you have an unbridled passion for fine weapons, for glowing jewels, for lovely women. I should be afraid of you; but I am not."

And she was not, as he perceived. "Then." he said quickly, "you like me a little?"

"I do not like you at all," she replied calmly. "I met the Sieur de Castelmore when I was in Paris; and it seemed I was in love with him. He came to Genoa, stayed three days, and persuaded me to fly with him. Then, too late, I discovered that he was an arrant rascal, seeking only to beguile me and steal my jewels. Yet I think I was far safer with that man, than I am with you."

"Sweet dove, I'd not harm you for the world!" protested Raymond. She looked at him, unsmiling. "See, now! I've rid you of that scoundrel. When you came here, when I met you, I read the appeal in your eyes."

"I thought you were a gentleman," she said quietly. "Those jewels are all I have in the world; take them, keep them, if you'll let me go back to Genoa."

"Tomorrow?" he said quickly.

"Now."

A laugh touched his lips. "No, little dove! I've not seen the jewels; but I've seen you, and you're the most precious jewel of all. You've brought me the greatest luck in the world. If that Gascon had kept his hands off you, I'd never have caught him. I have spies watching for any courier from Paris, and they failed completely; they did not even dream he was the courier, nor at first did I. But see! He's hanged. War and armies are averted, the wily Mazarin's plans are spoiled. You're here, and you shall go to Corthia with me, and love me as I love you!"

The scrivener Mario came shuffling forward, and laid before Raymond two sheets of fine vellum. One was the letter from Mazarin, denuded of its seals; the other, identical in size, was that on which he had copied the preamble of the letter.

Raymond scrutinized them both, and his eye lit up. The forgery was perfect.

"Mario, you're a jewel! Finish this task, and you shall be drunk for a month, and wench yourself to death if you've a mind! You've a quill and ink? Take down what I want written in the letter; and mind you copy Mazarin's signature with care!"

He dictated what he desired the French Cardinal to say to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and laughed softly as he dictated. It was a letter which abandoned all thought of the Leghorn scheme, a letter so filled with contemptuous insult and sly thrusts as to drive the prince of the Medici into a foaming fury.

And all the while, Donna Luisa sat, sipping her wine, and listened.

"That's all," concluded Raymond. "Faith, the Grand Duke will be purple in the face when he reads it! Seek that rascal, Jean Gontier, of my guards, and send him here. He's a Frenchman —or was—and has a nimble wit."

The scrivener withdrew, and a moment later one of the guards strode across the huge chamber and saluted the duke. Raymond extended the king's passport.

"Take this, Frenchman; from this moment you're the Sieur de Castelmore, a Gascon gentleman, bearing despatches from Paris to the Grand Duke of Tuscany. Take my own black horse and the letter I'll give you presently. Ride like the devil to Florence, deliver the letter to the Grand Duke in person, and then get out of Florence before he reads the letter and has a mind to hang the messenger." He tossed the man a purse. "Here's gold; twice as much if you return safe, your errand done."

THE man saluted and departed. Raymond relaxed, leaning back in his chair; he filled a glass with wine and drank it off, and met the calm, thoughtful gaze of Donna Luisa. He smiled suddenly.

"What, little dove? The prospect's not so bad after all, eh? Tomorrow we'll be in Corthia. You'll have a palace, with riches, velvets, servants, horses, friends—whatever your heart desires!"

"My heart desires virtue," she said calmly. Raymond chuckled.

"At the moment, no doubt; you'll get over that, my clear. You're no hysterical lass to clap a dagger through her heart because a man has kissed her! A tear or two, a scream or two, perhaps a blow or two; then you'll settle down to enjoy the advantages that life offers the most beautiful woman in Italy."

She regarded him steadily, meditatively.

"A liar," she said reflectively. "A man with a heart so cold and selfish-callous that he's lost all perception of goodness. Poor Raymond!" Her blue eyes softened. "I do pity you, so small and petty a thing you are, when with your talents you might have grown so great!"

A slight flush crept into his cheeks, for it was evident that she meant her words.

"The devil !" He stared at her, and laughed shortly. Then he glanced around, at shuffling steps. It was the scrivener, Mario, and with him the French guard.

Raymond looked at the two vellum letters; the writing was identical, the signatures were identical. The true letter he crumpled up. The false letter, with its inner seal and tie of twisted vellum, he folded over and gave back to Mario.

"Perfect," he said crisply. "Apply the outer seal and give it to the Sieur de Castelmore. And you, Frenchman, remember my words! Once you've delivered it, get out of Florence quickly!"

"No danger, lord; I'll remember." With a grin, the man departed.

Raymond leaned back again, sipped his wine, met the steady eye of Donia Luisa. A silence fell; presently came voices from the courtyard, a ring and click of hooves, and the shouted farewell of the messenger as he departed.

And Raymond, eyeing the girl, found a slow, mocking smile on her lips.

"What amuses you, little dove?" he demanded. "The thought of tomorrow and Corthia?"

"No; the thought of tonight, and the Black Bull. I suppose," she said softly, with a lift oi her brows, "you could overtake and bring back that messenger, if you wished ?"

"Mounted on my own black Arab, and with orders to speed, not the devil himself could overtake that man!" said Raymond confidently. "Why do yon ask such a question?"

"You'll learn soon enough. Are you going to order out my coach, with fresh horses, and let me go back to Genoa—here and now?"

"I am not," he said with cool amusement. "Instead, we're going upstairs, together. And there, you shall show me those jewels of yours; not that I want them, little dove, for you shall deck yourself in them to delight my eye, and at Corthia you shall have such jewels as you've never seen before!"

"Indeed!" Again she smiled, slightly, mysteriously. "Tell me something; is it true there's a price of five thousand crowns on your head?"

"In Venice, aye," he said, and laughed lightly. "They've offered that for my death. It'll never be collected; I've had more than that offered for me, in vain! Where did you hear of it?"

"In Genoa," she said.

Something in her manner wakened a vague uneasiness in him; he eyed her warily, and could not guess at what lay in her mind. Then, catching sight of the innkeeper, he beckoned; the other came forward.

"Light our chamber, above."

"It is already lighted," said the landlord. "I placed lights in it when they first went up. But, my lord! That rascally coachman of theirs, he of the shaggy red hair, has vanished. There were no orders to put him in a cell; he must have stolen forth and taken to his heels."

Raymond burst out laughing, and rose.

"So much the better! We're rid of him easily. Come, my dear!" He bowed to Donna Luisa, and extended his arm. She rose, and her enigmatic smile touched him again for an instant before she accepted his arm. Raymond flung a glance and a word at the innkeeper. "On no account, disturb us! Tell my men to make themselves comfortable."

They went to the stairs; a flickering cresset there lighted the way.

THE door to the chamber above stood open. Donna Luisa passed in; Raymond followed, then closed the massive door and bolted it.

It was a large room, with casement windows; on the table by the windows stood an iron candelabrum in which two candles were burning. By this reposed Donna Luisa's casket of leather. The luggage was on the floor nearby. The remainder of the room was shadowy, obscure. A huge testered bed in one corner; huge armoires along the walls, to serve as closets; huge beams overhead, all huge, dark, ominous with flickering shadows.

Donna Luisa went to the table, took out a little key, set it to the casket and threw back the lid. She glanced sideways at Duke Raymond.

"Do you care to see the jewels?"

"Bah! Such jewels as a shopkeeper's daughter might own; not the sort of gems you shall have tomorrow, the sort of gems to become you, madonna!" With a scornful laugh, he took a handful of broad gold pieces from his pocket and tossed them on the table. "There's the worth of double your jewels, little dove!"

She drew a deep breath, closed the lid of the casket, and turned to him. He caught her suddenly, kissing her lips, her eyes, her lips again. She did not struggle or resist, but stood passive until he held her away, looking at her. Then her eyes smote him.

"There are two things, Raymond, you do not know," she said calmly. "First, since leaving Genoa and discovering the true nature of that brute who had beguiled me, I took measures to protect myself from him; these same measures will protect me against you."

Her quiet, unexcited assurance would have been staggering at any other moment, but now passion was flaming in Raymond's brain. He uttered a wild laugh.

"Yes? I'll repay your confidence with another, madonna! A little while ago you said I might have become great; well, I shall become great! I have my plans laid. Soon I go to Rome—Rome, you understand? And Rome shall become mine. You shall go with me; you shall become mistress of Rome, little dove!"

She regarded him steadily, her blue eyes unafraid, untouched, unmoved.

"No," she said. "I have warned you, Raymond. Now, before telling you the second thing you don't know, I appeal to you." Her voice became soft, tender, musical. "Look at me, Raymond; I'm not the sort of woman to serve your lust. I beg of you, spare me; act like the prince you should be, and spare me, send me on my way! Do this, and blessings will fall upon you. Refuse, and all your ambitions shall end in disaster and death and misery. It is yours to choose, between blessing and curse!"

Again was that queer shining thing in her eyes, which stirred such old forgotten memories in him; for one instant, a sense of shame came upon him, so that his grip on her shoulders loosened. Then the loveliness of her, and passionate desire, swept away all else; he crushed her against him, crushed her lips to his own.

"That for warnings and blessings alike!" he exclaimed, vigorously. "How do you like that answer, little dove?"

"It brooks only one reply," she said quietly. "What about the other messenger to Florence, with the duplicate letter from Mazarin ?"

His eyes dilated. Passion died out of his features; they tightened, hardened, stiffened; his hands relaxed their grip. She went on speaking, calmly.

"Another messenger, Raymond, disguised, going by a different route. You could still catch him, stop him! But you don't know who he is, or where to find him. Castelmore knew, but you hanged him and he can't tell. I can tell, I alone!"

In a flash, Raymond saw all his plans and triumph going to smash. The wily Mazarin, taking no chances on a single messenger; his own forgery now on the way to Florence, only to be discredited; and Duke Ferdinand would make him rue that forgery bitterly.

"Then tell—tell me quickly. Do you hear, woman? Quickly!"

"No, Raymond; why should I tell? I'm in your power, and you refuse to spare me; well, do your worst! Torture me, if you like; whip me, rack me, burn me—can you make me tell? You cannot."

And, looking into her eyes, he knew he could not. Fury rose in him; knotted veins stood out upon his forehead. his hands clenched. And, in the back of his brain, was a rising tide of fear—dismay and fear, for his ghastly error. "I must know, I must know!" he said in a stifled voice. "What do you want?"

"Freedom," she returned curtly.

"Very well," he said, and checked himself.

ALMOST she had won her play. He was shaken, helpless, beaten. Then, as he looked into her eyes, he suddenly sensed something there—something that again stopped his pulses, telegraphed his brain, wakened his faculties. And he remembered, for the first time, that the proposals from Grand Duke Ferdinand had been enclosed in that letter from Mazarin. His head lifted, his shoulders squared, and with a slow smile he put out his hands again and gripped her arms.

"Clever! Little dove, you're clever!" he murmured. "But you forgot one thing. You lie! You lie!"

The blue depths fronting him were abruptly stricken with terror, and at this, he became quite certain.

"No, no! I tell you—"

"Tell me no more," he said, and drew her slowly to him. "The letters from Tuscany to Paris were in this packet—this alone. There was no duplicate letter from Mazarin. There was no other messenger. Ah, you played it well! I love you all the more for the game, madonna! Kiss me, kiss me, yield to destiny and happiness—"

Fear, horror, consternation were in her face; she tried to struggle, and could not. He pressed her to him, sought her lips eagerly, joyously—and, in this instant, felt something touch the back of his neck. Something sharp, that pricked his flesh; something cold, that chilled his brain.

He turned his head a little and then stiffened, motionless, as he glimpsed the figure that stood behind him with leveled sword blade. A gangling figure, a face scarred and evil, framed in shaggy, dangling red hair. It was the driver of the coach, the servant of the Frenchman.

From Raymond's nerveless hands, Donna Luisa drew away unhindered.

"Excellency, keep your arms as they are; up! Don't move, or the point drives home."

"You fool! I'm Raymond of Corthia!"

"I know it," and the harsh voice cackled a laugh. "And I'll get five thousand crowns at Venice for skewering you! So stand steady."

Raymond obeyed. He turned his head again and looked at Donna Luisa. With a bit of lace, she was wiping her lips, wiping away the touch of his caresses. She was white and still and proud as she met his gaze.

"I warned you," she said calmly. "I told you I'd made my plans. I bribed this man to serve me; he was willing to kill his master, he's willing to kill you."

"Fool!" said Raymond. "I'll give you fifty thousand crowns to leave this room!"

"Aye! And then you'd string me up. I've heard of you. excellency; I play safe, and you die here. Or else you stay bound and gagged while we go. As the lady orders."

Raymond met the girl's cold blue eyes, and laughed a little.

"Faith, you seem in the saddle! You seem also to have meant your virtuous words. Your rascal holds his point steady; he knows his business. You've won the game. Will you accept my word of honor—"

"I will not. Your honor is worthless," she broke in with cold contempt. "You don't know the meaning of the word! You'll be tied up, bound, gagged, left here; lucky not to be murdered. But I want no murder on my soul."

Raymond's eyes darkened. An unpleasant prospect; he would be found in the morning. the story would spread. he would become the laughing stock of all Italy. Raymond of Corthia tricked by a wench! A flame leaped in him!

"Stop!" he exclaimed. "Careful, Donna Luisa! No one has bested Raymond of Corthia yet; don't press me too far! I'll swear to set the two of you at liberty, in your own coach, at once. Accept my word!"

"Your oaths are as worthless as your honor," she said calmly. Her hand went under her gown, and drew out a poniard. "You're the one to have a care! Keep your arms up, while I take your dagger—"

RAYMOND faced destiny; and faced it with a gamble, as always. A gamble on a fairly sure thing.

He kept his arms up, but shot his head and body forward, striking against the girl. She was, as he had figured, slow to use her dagger. The man behind was not slow by any means. The point of his sword, removed from Raymond's bare neck, drove in hard and fast between Raymond's shoulders— a thrust that should have spitted any man through.

The blade, however, merely bent double. More than once, that shirt of steel mesh, invisible beneath his doublet, had saved Raymond of Corthia from destiny; and it saved him now. He was heaved forward by the thrust, he lost balance, he went sprawling across the floor—but, catlike, he rolled over and came to his feet.

The bravo, with an oath of fury was hot upon him. Raymond laughed, as his long poniard slipped out, met the thrusting blade, and warded it. He might well laugh. A poniard, in the hand of Raymond of Corthia, was better than a sword in another's hand, as he proceeded to prove.

Laughing gaily, joyously, viciously, he warded thrust and lunge, took a deadly riposte slap over the heart, and chuckled as the sword blade bent again on the hidden steel mesh. An oath of fury escaped the bravo. Raymond danced away, keeping one eye on the disconcerted, bewildered Donna Luisa and her stiletto.

"Ha, red haired rogue!" he said mockingly, meeting a new lunge with swift parry. "Ha! You scar faced scurvy scoundrel, I'd fight you with a bodkin and slit your throat before you could—"

Death slid at him suddenly. He leaped away, but it was a near thing; the sword's point touched his throat and drew a pinch of blood. Donna Luisa moved unexpectedly; came running at him from behind, her eyes wild, desperation in her face. Raymond avoided her with nimble step, backed around to meet the thirsty sword, and engaged it as though he held a dueling rapier. His eyes alight, he faced the panting, sweating bravo with a laugh.

"I've got the feel of you now, redhair!" he jeered. "Death's close behind you, touching your shoulder, reaching out for you! I'll sign your passport to hell with a scarlet pen, my fine ruffler! Draw sword on me, will you? By the nails of God, it's the last time you'll draw sword on any man!"

Despite boasts, he could not reach past the long sword guard with his shorter weapon; and knew it well.

All this had happened in a moment's time—a swift, slow, frightful moment. The hovering Donna Luisa was unaware that no steel could pierce Raymond from throat to hip; it seemed black magic that he was unhurt.

Suddenly he slipped. He fell to one knee. With a gasp, the bravo drove in a thrust to finish him—but Raymond came up under that lunging blade, which struck his shoulders and scraped away. He came up, and the poniard with him; up and up, swiftly, death in his eyes and his hand. The poniard struck into the red haired man, thudded into him to the very hilt, and was torn from Raymond's grasp. The bravo pitched over in death.

And as Raymond swayed, empty handed, Donna Luisa fell upon him and drove in the stiletto for his heart.

The thin steel shivered in her hand. A wild, gasping cry escaped her, for Raymond was clutching at her. Her hand slapped him across the face, hard; with an access of fury, he flung her from him. She went staggering into the shadows, struck her head against the high bed post, and collapsed across the bed, unconscious.

Upon the room settled silence, broken only by the harsh, panting breaths of Duke Raymond. Silence, and the raw odor of fresh blood, rising from the floor. Abruptly, Raymond moved.

He stooped over the dead man, freed his poniard, wiped it on the shaggy red hair, and clapped it into the sheath. Then, breathing hard, he took the iron candlestick and went to the bed; he held up the light, looking down at Donna Luisa as she lay.

She seemed as though sleeping, rather than senseless. Her hands were folded across her breast; her sweet features were very peaceful, almost smiling. Raymond stared at her, frankly incredulous. his brows drawing down.

She had failed. She was his. And yet, the hand he lifted and drew across his eyes was trembling. She seemed so like a fragile flower as she lay here! The white lines of her face were virginal, delicate; her long, slim hands were like wax. She could be crushed and broken, but not bent—

Abruptly, the man stirred. A deep breath escaped him; he stooped, touched his lips to her white hands, then strode across the room.

"Landlord!" His voice rang like a clarion. "Come here. Bring a couple of men."

AFTER a moment sounded the tramp of feet on the stairs. In hurried two of the guards and the burly innkeeper, to stare all amazed at the dead man. Raymond flung them a thin smile, a sardonic word.

"You keep good watch, down below. This fellow had hidden here to kill me. Carry him out! Landlord, bring out the lady's coach, harness the horses; lift her down yourself, as she is, and put her in the coach. One of my men, and two guards, will ride with it to Genoa, leaving her wherever she may desire. Understood?"

"Yes, yes, excellency!" exclaimed the staring landlord.

The dead man was carried out. The innkeeper gently lifted the form of Donna Luisa and bore her away. Raymond went to a window and flung it open, and stood glowering out at the darkness, his dark features mutinous and writhing. He caught a rumble of wheels, a clatter of horses, and mouthed a sullen oath.

"I'm a fool! Why did I do it?" he muttered, fingers gripping at his dagger hilt. "Something in her lace, stronger than anything in me—"

* * * * * * * * * *

My friend Haberlein settled back in his chair, his eyes aglow, as he finished his tale. I was jerked abruptly back from medieval Italy to the present, and sat staring at him, uncomfortably aware of the hypnotic spell he had cast upon me.

"There you have the whole thing!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "If it hadn't been for that girl and what happened at the Black Bull that evening, the whole course of trade and empire might have been changed—"

"Devil take trade and empire!" I said with irritation. "What became of the girl? What became of Raymond of Corthia?"

Haberlein shrugged, and rose.

"I don't know," he said. "I was just telling you the story of that one evening—the only time Raymond of Corthia was ever known to show mercy. If it hadn't been for that girl, he wouldn't have blocked the plans of Mazarin—"

I waved him away. I would have given anything on earth to have known what became of that magnificent girl—and Haberlein neither knew nor cared.