And with these enigmatic words, and a roguish wink and squeeze, he had hurried away again, following the impatient summons of Jacopo, who was beckoning him towards a flight of open stairs niched in the north curtain, up which the two had thereon gone, and so disappeared among the battlements. Then had Bernardo turned, humour battling with reverence in his sensorium, and ’Cicca!’ had exclaimed, with a little click of laughter. The Fool’s answer had been prompt and emphatic. ’Cracked!’ he had snapped, like a dog at a fly. ’Who was he?’ ’Nay, curtail not his short lease. He is yet, and, being, is the Fra Capello—may I die else.’ ’Well, if he is, _what_ is he?’ ’Why, a short-of-breath monk; yet soon destined, if I read him aright, to be a breathless monk.’ ’Nay, thou wilt only new-knot a riddle. I will follow and ask the Provost-Marshal, though I love him not.’ ’Nor he thee, methinks. Hold back. The butcher looks askance at the pet lamb. Well, what wouldst thou? Of this same monkish rotundity, this hemisphere of fat, this moon-paunch, this great blob of star-jelly, this planet-counterfeiting frog, this astronomic globe stuffed out with pasties and ortolans? Well, ’tis Fra Capello, I tell thee, an astrologer, a diviner by the stars—do I not aver it, though I have never set eyes on the man before?’ ’How know’st, then?’ ’Why, true, my perspicacity is only this and that, a poor matter of inferences. As, for example, the inference of the fingers, that when I burn them, fire is near; or the inference of the nose, that when I smell cooking fish, it is a fast day; or the inference of the palate, that when I drink water, I am a fool.’ ’A dear wise fool.’ ’Ay, a wise fool, to know what one and one make. Dost thou?’ ’Two, to be sure.’ ’Well, God fit thy perspicacity with twins, when thy time comes. One out of one and one is enough for me.’ ’Peace! How know’st this holy father is an astrologer?’ ’Inference, sir—merely inference. As, for example again, the inference of the ears, that when I mark the substance of his whisper to thee, I seem to remember talk of a certain Franciscan, who, having predicted by the stars short shrift for Galeazzo, and been invited to come and discuss his reasons, did prove unaccountably coy, though certainly seer to his own nativity. Imprimis, the astrologer was reported a Conventual and fat; whereby comes in the inference of the eye. Now, "Ho-ho!" thinks I, "this same swag-bellied monk who babbles of stars! Surely it is our Fra Capello? And hooked at last? By what killing bait?"’ Here he had touched the boy’s shoulder swiftly, and as swiftly had withdrawn his hand, an ineffable expression, shrewd and caustic, puckering his face. Bembo had looked serious. ’Cicca! I do believe thou art madder than any astrologer—unless——’ ’No!’ had cried the Fool; ’I am sober; wrong me not.’ Then Bembo had repented lovingly:— ’Pardon, dear Cicca. But, indeed, I understand thee not.’