Our way led back by Santa Felicita, past the Ponte Vecchio, and at length we came to a halt before a small side door, let into, what seemed to me, nothing but a vast blank wall. My new friend opened this door noiselessly, with a key he drew from his pocket, and invited me to enter. Pleading ignorance of the way, however, I gave him the pass, and followed him up a narrow and very dark stairway, which opened into a long gallery, likewise in semidarkness. Up this gallery we went, then there was another small passage, and lifting a curtain at the end of this, we stepped past an open door into a large room, evidently a study, for it was filled with books all but the side near the passage, which was covered by a heavy tapestry. In the middle of the room was a large table, littered with papers in much confusion, and eight tall candles burning in a pair of grotesque candelabra, threw a bright but soft light over the chamber. "Sit you down there," said my host, pointing to a chair, "and we will have something to drink. _Diavolo!_ You are wounded! Why did you not say?" I looked at my left arm, and sure enough the coat-sleeve was red, with an enlargening patch. It was only a trifle, however, as we found on examination; but my companion, who still kept his mask on, insisted on bandaging it, which he did with deft fingers, and then turning to a curiously inlaid cabinet let into the wall, brought thenceforth a flagon of green crystal and two long-stemmed Venetian glasses. Whilst he was thus engaged my eyes rested on a book on the table, and I saw at a glance that it was the copy of Plutarch's Lives which Ceci had lent me on payment, so that it was most probable that I was in the presence of the noble, against whom the Medici plot was directed, and in whose library the intendant's nephew was employed, partly I guessed as a spy. My hand was on the book as my host placed the glasses on the table, and observing the movement, he said with a smile: "I see, Signore, you not only carry a sharp sword; but know a book as well." "As for books, Signore," I answered, "I know but little of them. This one, however, I thought I had seen before." "Indeed," he said, "that is odd, for I believe this is the only rendering of Plutarch into Italian which is in existence. Strange, too, as for over a week I could not find it anywhere." "Very," I answered shortly, and my host, pouring out a glass for me, helped himself, and settling comfortably in a chair opposite to me, slowly removed his mask and laid it aside. I saw before me, a man in the prime of life, of middle height and slender figure, with however a great dignity of carriage. His head, covered with short dark hair, was small, but well-shaped, his dark eyes sparkled with intelligence, and a slightly aquiline nose curved over a pair of thin, sarcastic lips, which were however now smiling at me with as much good-humour as they could express.