The hours crept on, the guests departed, yet was the table of the Venetians occupied by the Venetians themselves, and by many ladies, amongst them the Princess. Gubetta was there, and kept his watchful eye upon them all. “I am tired already, and will go.” “‘Tis he again,” cried Orsini; “‘tis Gennaro who spoke. Gennaro, hear my new ballad.” “Ah, ah.” “Who dareth to laugh at me?” “I, Gubetta, and the rest of us. Thou art an eminent poet, truly.” “An insult, Signors.” “If laughing is insulting thee, I do; ah, ah.” “Castilian renegade!” “Roman bully!” In a moment the place was in confusion. The women fled, the seats were overturned, and the Orsini and his enemy had armed themselves with knives from the table, for it was the wise custom to deliver arms at the door where feasts and rejoicings were held. “Respect the Princess,” said one, holding back the Orsini. “The guard will break open the doors,” said a second, restraining the Spaniard. “To-morrow, Signors, to-morrow.” “When you may fight with swords.” “And not with knives like highwaymen.” “Signors,” said the spy, Gubetta, now that his ruse for removing the women had succeeded. “Signors, I was wrong.” “Truly; and to prove it, Orsini shall sing us his song.” “Orsini _will_.” “Wine, wine.” “Truly, Signors, wine.” Thus Gubetta. “There, cup-bearer. My faith, Signors, this is Siracusa, the noblest drink. Let me pour for you.” And he took the tankard, no one wondering where the bearer of it sprung from. Nay, they took each a cup, and crowded round the Spanish spy, each calling laughingly for a share of the Siracusa. “Nay, nay, Signors--there is enough for all.” “Thou hast poured all out, Gubetta. Thou hast none--now drink with me, Orsini, from the same cup. ’Twill drown our quarrel.” “Nay, Signor Orsini, as a punishment on me, drink thou the whole draught thyself.” “Obedience is good-will. Behold--the cup is empty.” “Orsini! Orsini! the song.” “Here ’tis.” “‘Oh, I’ll teach you the secret I’ve taught me, I mean the sure way to be glad, ’Tis--or cloudy--or freezing--or sunshine, Oh! never, oh! never be SAD. “Oh!--oh--sing, drink, and laugh at the madmen Who give to the future a thought; Let to-morrow look after to-morrow, For double is trouble when sought.” Hark--as the last note dies away, there is a slow chanting without. “THE JOY OF THE PROFANE IS A PASSING SMOKE.” As the solemn sound reaches them, the very light seems to pass away. For it is late, and the lights are dying out. “What voices are these?” “‘Tis a jest.” “Bah--another verse.” “Oh--’tis ready.” “Let us smile on the youth that smiles on us, For youth of all joys is the crown; While if death for a moment draw nigh us, And he should ungraciously frown. “Oh!--oh--sing, drink, and laugh at that madman Who gives to the future a thought; Let to-morrow look after to-morrow, For double is trouble when sought.”