“Monsignore the Secretary, I am sure, spoke in haste and without intent to insult the ancestors or fatherland of so illustrious a gentleman as the Conte di Palaestro. As for the latter’s answer, let us all confess it was not unprovoked. In the heat of such a sortie no man can be required to weigh all he utters. The Conte would hardly subscribe to-morrow to all he has expressed to-night. Heaven forbid, we should either undervalue or overrate his words! Being no learned classicist, as are these highly esteemed gentlemen, I cry their pardon if I beg them to forego this discussion before this most noble and virtuous company.” I had shot my arrow, and readily bowed assent. Bembo muttered something about “having no desire to wound the Conte’s honor.” Monsignore Priario and a couple of other ecclesiastics looked at me rather blackly, but I felt none the worse for that. The conversation became general, everybody steering clear of dangerous subjects. The Prince of Colonna explained the latest discoveries of the Spaniards in the Indies and the possibility of a great increase in the supply of gold. Raffaello spoke charmingly about his latest project for the reconstruction of San Pietro. Bembo--quite mollified--told of the rediscovery of a manuscript of Plautus at the Milanese library, while Rocca aired his ingenious theory of how the ancient gourmands served oysters. The night, or rather the morning, advanced. The candles were changed; more wine was passed--although nobody was drinking really to excess. We were so charmed by our own wit that no one noted the hour when we dismissed the subject of the Laocoön, lately installed in the Vatican Belvidere, and took up the theory of Pindar, as propounded by the Bishop of Montebello,--“that a noble action is worthless to the doer, unless it is accompanied by the praise of his fellow-men.” On this point we all,--including the ladies,--had much to say, and I was being charmed by the manner wherewith Madonna Marianna entered into the argument, when I was diverted by the touch of a servant. “Many pardons, Eccellenza; this gentleman says he must speak to you.” Looking about I saw the guards-captain, Fabriano, our companion on the boat ride, and leaped up immediately. “Happily met, good fellow,” I cried, holding out my hand; “the wine has loosed our tongues and unsealed our wit and wisdom. Here, boy--a chair and a glass for the noble captain.” He did not take my hand, and gazed at me awkwardly. “Pest take me, Gualtiero,” he began at last; “I scarce know what to say. I have come here as an official, not as a friend. Be sure I come with all the reluctance in the world.” “But my dear fellow, I don’t see why you look at me as gingerly as San Giorgio at his dragon.” He seized me by the sleeve, then blurted, “The fiends make me out with it! I am come to demand your sword and take you to the Castle of San Angelo. The governor of the city has ordered it.” “To arrest me?--” I was indeed dazed.