’_Offerimus tibi, Domine, Calicem salutaris!_’ he quoted from the Mass, in his sweet, strong voice. ’Hast thou not a first example of that exaltation, Lupo, in the oblation of the chalice?’ Revolution knows no blasphemy. ’Bah!’ grumbled Visconti. ’He died for men: we worship the sacrifice of Himself,’ protested the armourer. ’And shall not Messer Bembo sacrifice himself, his scruples and his reluctances, that love may be exalted over hate, mercy over tyranny?’ asked Olgiati. ’I know not, Messer,’ muttered the suffering armourer. ’I cannot trace the saint in these sophistries, that is all.’ ’True, he is a saint,’ conceded Lampugnani, yawning as he lolled. ’Now, what is a saint, Lupo?’ ’O, Messer! look on his mother’s son, and ask!’ ’Why, that is the true squirrel’s round. We are all born of women’—he yawned again. ’They bear us, and we endure them,’ he murmured smilingly, the water in his eyes. ’It is so we retaliate on their officiousness.’ Montano tittered. ’Lupo,’ Lampugnani went on, lazily stirring himself, ’you suggest to me two-thirds of a syllogism: _I_ am my mother’s son; therefore I am a saint.’ ’Ho! ho!’ hooted Visconti. ’Messer,’ entreated the bewildered armourer, ’with respect, it turns upon the question of the mother.’ ’The mother? O dog, to question the repute of mine!’ ’I did not—no, never.’ ’Well, who was his?’ ’None knows. A star, ’tis said.’ ’Venus, of course. And his father?’ ’Some son of God, perchance.’ ’Ay, Mars. He was that twain’s by-blow, and fell upon an altar. I know now how saints are made. Yet shall we, coveting sanctity, wish our parents bawds? ’Tis a confusing world!’ He sank back as if exhausted, while Montano chirped, and Visconti roared with laughter. ’Saints should be many in it, Andrea,’ he applauded. ’Knows how they are made, quotha!’ and he stamped about, holding his sides till, reeling near to the dummy, he paused, and made a savage lunge at it with his dagger. His mood changed on the instant. ’Death!’ he snarled, ’I warrant here’s one hath propagated some saints to his undoing!’ and he went muttering a rosary of curses under his breath. Lampugnani, smilingly languid, continued:— ’Well, Lupo, so Messer Bembo is the son of his mother? It seems like enough—what with his wheedling and his love-locks. He shall be Saint Cupid on promotion. I think he will regard scarlet or pink as no objectionable fashion, does it come to make a god of him.’ The armourer uttered an exclamation:— ’Some think him that already. It is the question of his coming to be Duke that hips me. I can’t see him there.’ ’Nor I,’ said Visconti, with a sarcastic laugh. Olgiati interposed quietly:— ’Have comfort, Lupo. We are all good republicans. The exaltation of Messer Bembo is to be provisional only, preceding the consummation. He is to be lifted like the Host, to bring the people to their knees, and then lowered, and——’ ’Put away,’ said Lampugnani blandly.