“No, sir, there are many proud, stately palaces and beautiful churches and no lack of silk and velvet everywhere, the trade of cloth-weaving too is flourishing; but my health, my health was not good in your Florence, principally on account of the heat, and besides I found many things different from what I expected. In the first place, there’s the river Arno! The stream is a puddle, nothing but a puddle! Do you know what the water looks like? Like the pools that stand between the broken fragments and square blocks in a stonecutter’s yard, after a heavy thunder-shower.” “The score, Captain, the score!” “I mean the yard of a stone-cutter, who does a large business, and pools of tolerable width. Will you still contradict me if I maintain--the Arno is a shallow, narrow stream, just fit to sail a boy’s bark-boat. It spreads over a wide surface of grey pebbles, very much as the gold fringe straggles over the top of Junker von Warmond’s fencing-glove.” “You saw it at the end of a hot summer,” replied Wilhelm, “it’s very different in spring.” “Perhaps so; but I beg you to remember the Rhine, the Meuse, and our other rivers, even the Marne, Drecht and whatever the smaller streams are called. They remain full and bear stately ships at all seasons of the year. Uniform and reliable is the custom of this country; to-day one way, to-morrow another, is the Italian habit. It’s just the same with the blades in the fencing-school.” “The Italians wield dangerous weapons,” said von Warmond. “Very true, but they bend to and fro and lack firmness. I know what I’m talking about, for I lodged with my colleague Torelli, the best fencing-master in the city. I’ll say nothing of the meals he set before me. To-day macaroni, to-morrow macaroni with a couple of chicken drumsticks to boot, and so on. I’ve often drawn my belt tighter after dinner. As for the art of fencing, Torelli is certainly no bungler, but he too has the skipping fashion in his method. You must keep your eyes open in a passado with him, but if I can once get to my quarte, tierce, and side-thrust, I have him.” “An excellent series,” said Junker von Warmond. “It has been useful to me.” “I know, I know,” replied the captain eagerly. “You silenced the French brawler with it at Namur. There’s the catch in my throat again. Something will happen to-day, gentlemen, something will surely happen.” The fencing-master grasped the front of his ruff with his left hand and set the glass on the table with his right. He had often done so far more carelessly, but to-day the glass shattered into many fragments. “That’s nothing,” cried the young nobleman. “Waiter, another glass for Captain Allertssohn.” The fencing-master pushed his chair back from the table, and looking at the broken pieces of greenish glass, said in an altered tone, as if speaking to himself rather than his companions: “Yes, yes, something serious will happen to-day. Shattered into a thousand pieces. As God wills! I know where my place is.”