Cola Montano, it has been said, had been borne away after his scourging by some women of the people. Grace, or pity, or fear was in their hearts, and they nursed him. Scarcely for his own sake; for, democracy being impersonal, he was at no trouble to be a grateful patient. He took their ministries as conceded to a principle, and individually was as surly and impatient with them as any ill-conditioned cur. Recovering betimes (the dog had a tough hide), he learned of neighbour Lupo’s condition, and walked incontinently into that wretched artificer’s existence. He found a blind and hopeless wreck, shelves of rusting armour, a forge of dead embers, and, brooding sullen beside it, a girl too plainly witnessing to her own dishonour. He heard the rain on the roof; he saw the set grey mother creeping about her work; and he sat himself down by the sightless armourer, and peered hungrily into his swathed face. ’Dost know me, Lupo? I am Montano.’ The miserable man groaned. ’Master Collegian? Stands yet thy school of philosophy? A’ God’s name, lay something of that on this hot bandage!’ ’The school stands in its old place, armourer; but its doors, like thine, are shut. What then? Its principles remain open to all.’ The poor wretch put out a hand, feeling. ’Where art thou? Have thy wounds healed so quickly? Mine are incurable.’ ’What!’ croaked Montano jeeringly, ’with such a salve to allay them! I heard of it—logic meet to an angel—to renew thine image through her yonder. Marry, sir! conception runs before the law. Hast chased thy likeness down and taken it to church? Mistress Lucia there would seem a sullen bride. Hath her popinjay come and gone again? Well, you must be content with the legitimising.’ The armourer writhed in answering. ’What think you? There has been none. Mock not our misery. Is it the concern of angels to see their sentences enforced?’ ’No, but to be called angels. Heaven is not easy surfeited with adulation.’ ’He was glorified in his judgment; and there, for us, the matter ended.’ ’Not quite.’ The pedagogue bent his evil head to look again into that woful face. ’Lupo, my school is closed; alumnus loiters in the streets. Shall he come in here?’ There was something so significant in his tone that the broken man he addressed started, as if a hand had been laid on his eyes. ’For what? Who is he?’ he muttered. ’I will tell you anon,’ answered Montano. ’No prelector but hath his favourite pupils. He, alumnus, is in this case threefold—three dear homeless scholars of mine, Lupo, needing a rallying-place in which to meet and mature some long-discussed theory of social cure. I have heard from them since—since my illness. They chafe to resume their studies and their mentor—honest, good fellows, confessing, perhaps, to a heresy or so.’ ’Master,’ muttered the armourer, ’you will do no harm to be explicit.’