"Do so, my friend," said I. "I am most curious to hear how this affair ends." As we were discoursing together Antonio suddenly broke short his discourse. "Hark, Signor!" he cried. "Do you hear? Those are death-bells that are tolling in the village. Can someone really have died, or has Peppe's wife set them tolling to impose upon me all the more? What say you, Signor? Would she carry out the joke as far as all that?" "There is nothing like doing a thing well," I answered, evasively. "I shall be able to find out from the sacristan for whom he has been tolling the bell this morning," said Antonio, "and if that knave of a Peppe is not dead yet, may I die of an accident if I don't worry him to the death. You must know, Eccellenza, that three pauls to us poor devils is a consideration, unimportant though the sum may be _alla vostra Signoria_.[18] What a conscience the man must have to try and swindle me out of what I lent him in friendship, after swearing to me on his word of honour and invoking all sorts of curses on his own head if he failed to pay me on the day he promised! Had not your Excellency positively assured me that he still lives, I should be inclined to think that he had died in real earnest, as a punishment for his broken faith." I was amused at the word "conscience" from the lips of a man like Antonio, and the old fable of "the pot calling the kettle black" flashed across my mind. We are wonderfully alive to the weak points of others' consciences where our own interests are concerned, but are too often wanting in equal rigour over ourselves. How true is that parable in Scripture of the mote and the beam! In order to proceed with my narrative, I must pass on to the following day. Feeling slightly indisposed from a fever on waking that morning--nothing serious, but just enough to prevent me from painting out-of-doors, as I had intended--I kept my bed later than usual, and called to my landlady to bring me a basin of broth. As she entered my bedchamber with the steaming fluid, I noticed by the animated expression of her face that she had news of unusual importance to communicate to me. "Oh, Signor!" she exclaimed, as she hastened to place the broth on a table beside me, "what do you think has happened in the village? A miracle! a miracle! nothing short of a miracle, blessed be the Madonna. _Si Signor_," she added, in answer to a smile that she observed on my countenance, "one of the most wonderful miracles that ever our blessed Virgin has deigned to vouchsafe to us, her unworthy servants. Blessed be her holy name for all eternity!" "Well," said I, calmly sipping my broth, "another miracle! let's hear it."