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And could have struck him down to deepest hell—

Each moment

He snatches ends of this dark mystery,

As he unravelled at the dead of night

The broidery on a frame he could but feel.

True, true! It turns the brain that no one knows.

Some whisper ’twas the Lord of Pesaro

Revenged himself for ridicule and the shame

Of his divorce.

[Shaking his head.] He has no credit here.

Some roundly have it

The Lord Ascanio Sforza did the deed,

For he and Gandia quarrelled the same day

That our fine Duke was struck.

It was a masterpiece

Of secrecy—this murder.

No more news?

By item all I know is told to you,

My Lord Segovia.

[From the bed.] Ah!

I will retire,

And send the Lord Francesco Borgia up

To urge his cousin’s appetite.

Behold!

[Poto, turning to the bed, finds the Pope sitting up, a beatific smile on his face.

But I have seen my son in Paradise....

How fares your Holiness this morning?