“I did not ask you to applaud. I know you love the Germans as much as a monk does the Soldan. Now I have said this I imagine you will be prompt enough to leave me.” “Wrong, Eccellenza;” said Andrea soberly; “an honest servant does not leave a master just because the master resolves upon what is unwise. I can lie to you, steal from you, disobey your small orders, do a thousand other things to make you curse and flog me, but forsake you in trouble--alas! what have I done to make the Conte think of me so ill?” “You are the most honest rascal that ever escaped the gallows,” spoke I, with an imprudent laugh. “Softer, Eccellenza,” entreated Andrea. “They think I am down at the village for a frolic. What we have to do were best done to-night. Is the Conte again hale and well?” “Never sounder. Rabbi Sarfati’s cordial has spent itself,--the circumcised villain!” I need not detail all that he then suggested. The invaluable fellow had already fathomed my entire predicament, and had a plan of escape devised. It was useless to strive to remain in Palaestro in the face of the authority Forli was attempting to exercise in the Pope’s name, but escape from my present imprisonment did not promise vast difficulties, though it irked my pride to seem to flee like an outlaw from my own paternal stronghold. Promising to be back before midnight Andrea swung his feet into the loops of his rope and vanished overhead, leaving me to possess my soul in what patience was permitted it. From the state apartments of the palazzo came the sounds of music and merriment. The tidings of my derangement clearly had not blighted the spirits of the guests. They were, I imagined, arranging a _Moresche_, a ballet then much in vogue, the men of the company blackened like Moors and winding in giddy Oriental mazes, flourishing lighted tapers. I could hear the harps, flutes, and viols; some one was declaiming amorous sonnets, glasses were tinkling, the dance was swaying at its height. I could imagine the beauty of the women, the beauty of Marianna. One consenting word from me would put me back as centre and master of all that throng. Yet sooner might wild horses have torn me limb from limb than that I should say it. Many were my vices, but fickle mindedness, I dare to boast, was not among them. I had chosen. “I am facing toward the north,” I whispered to myself, whilst with impatience I awaited Andrea. * * * * * My worthy valet, councillor, and, I sometimes feared, governor, was evidently bent on proving that he could execute a masterpiece. “I had only sheep and asses from Rome to dispose of,” he explained to me afterward. “What chance had they against a Tuscan, against Andrea? Did I not suck my first milk at Siena? Their master, _il cardinale_, may know much about trussing capons so as to retain their juice, but as for circumventing an adversary by an act of real _virtù_--bah!”