XXXVII
The Orsi and the Moratini had taken my advice and gone to Citta diCastello; so it was to that city we directed our way, and eventuallyreached it in safety. I did not know where Bartolomeo Moratini was, andI did not wish to take Giulia to my own house, so I placed her in aBenedictine convent, the superior of which, on hearing my name, promisedto give her guest every care.
Then I went to the old palace which I had not seen for so many years. Ihad been too excited to get really home to notice anything of thestreets as I passed through them; but as I came in view of thewell-remembered walls, I stopped, overcome with strange emotions.... Iremembered the day when news had been brought me that the old Vitelli,who was then ruler of Castello, had murmured certain things about mewhich caused my neck to itch uncomfortably--and upon this I hadentrusted my little brother to a relative, who was one of the canons ofthe cathedral, and the palace to my steward, and mounting my horse,ridden off with all possible haste. I had supposed that a few monthswould calm the angry Vitelli, but the months had lengthened out intoyears, and his death had come before his forgiveness. But now I reallywas back, and I did not mean to go away; my travels had taught mecaution, and my intrigues at Forli given me enough excitement for sometime. Besides, I was going to marry and rear a family; for, as ifFortune could not give scantily, I had gained a love as well as a home,and everything I wished was granted.
My meditations were interrupted.
'_Corpo di Bacco!_'
It was Matteo, and in a moment I was in his arms.
'I was just asking myself what that fool was staring at this house for,and thinking of telling him it was impolite to stare, when I recognisedthe house's owner.'
I laughed, and shook his hand again.
'Well Filippo, I am sure we shall be very pleased to offer youhospitality.'
'You are most kind.'
'We have annexed the whole place, but I daresay you will be able to findroom somewhere. But come in.'
'Thanks,' I said, 'if you do not mind.'
I found Checco, Bartolomeo and his two sons sitting together. Theyjumped up when they saw me.
'What news? What news?' they asked.
Then suddenly I remembered the terrible story I had to tell, for in myown happiness I had forgotten everything that went before. I suddenlybecame grave.
'Bad news,' I said. 'Bad news.'
'Oh, God! I have been foreboding it. Every night I have dreamed awfulthings.'
'Checco,' I answered. 'I have done all I could; but, alas! it has beenof no avail. You left me as a protector and I have been able to protectno one.'
'Go on!'
Then I began my story. I told them how the Council had opened the gates,surrendering unconditionally, and how the Countess had sallied forth intriumph. That was nothing. If there had been no worse news for them thanthat! But Checco clenched his hands as I related the sacking of hispalace. And I told him how old Orso had refused to fly and had beenseized, while I had lain senseless on the floor.
'You did your best, Filippo,' said Checco. 'You could do nothing more.But afterwards?'
I told them how Marco Scorsacana and Pietro had been taken prisoners,and led into the town like thieves caught in the act; how the crowd hadgathered together, and how they had been brought to the square andhanged from the Palace window, and their bodies torn to pieces by thepeople.
'Oh, God!' uttered Checco. 'And all this is my fault.'
I told them that the old Orso was brought forward and taken to hispalace, and before his eyes it was torn down, stone after stone, tillonly a heap of ruins marked the site.
Checco gave a sob.
'My palace, my home!'
And then, as if the blow was too great, he bent his head and burst intotears.
'Do not weep yet, Checco,' I said. 'You will have cause for tearspresently.'
He looked up.
'What more?'
'Your father.'
'Filippo!'
He started up, and stepping back, stood against the wall, his armsagainst it, outstretched, with white and haggard face and staring eyes,like a hunted beast at bay.
I told him how they had taken his father and bound him, and thrown himdown, and tied him to the savage beast, and how he had been draggedalong till his blood spattered on the pavement and his soul left him.
Checco uttered a most awful groan, and, looking up to heaven, as if tocall it in witness, cried,--
'Oh, God!'
Then, sinking into a chair, he buried his face in his hands, and in hisagony swayed from side to side. Matteo went up to him and put his handon his shoulder, trying to comfort him; but he motioned him aside.
'Let me be.'
He rose from his seat, and we saw that his eyes were tearless, for hisgrief was too great for weeping. Then, with his hands before him like ablind man, he staggered to the door and left us.
Scipione, the weak man, was crying.
The Making of a Saint Page 38