I will expound this meaning of mine through the medium of a parable.

In Babylon of old, there dwelt a king whose name was Belshazzar, who, having fallen into habits of voluptuousness and luxury, was so enslaved by them as to feast and make merry whilst a certain Darius, King of the Medes, was marching in arms against his capital.

At a feast one night the fingers of a man's hand were seen to write upon the wall, and the words they wrote were a belated warning: 'Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin.'" She looked at me, her eyes round with inquiry, and a faint smile of uncertainty on her lips.
"Let me confess that your elucidation helps me but little." "Ponder it, Madonna," I urged her.

"Substitute Giovanni Sforza for Belshazzar, Cesare Borgia for King Darius, and you have the key to my parable." "But is it indeed so?
Does danger threaten Pesaro from that quarter ?" "Aye, does it," I answered, almost impatiently.

"The tide of war is surging up, and presently will whelm us utterly.