“It is the enchanted garden of Hesperus,” said Tiretta, pausing on the threshold. He lowered his voice instinctively, as if he had broken unexpectedly into some woodland shrine of the gods; then went a soft step or two and paused again. “It is a very good plantation,” said Bissy, tolerant and superior. “We have established it against some odds, signore, I can tell you.” “What odds?” He looked at the imp vacantly, his thoughts elsewhere. “Wind and snow,” said Bissy. “The trees have to be protected and fed. Though they are grafted on sound lemon stocks, they are capricious at first, like infants put to a wet-nurse, and require a deal of coaxing. When lusty, they become strong feeders, as Mamselle Fanchette will tell you.” Tiretta caught the name. “Who will tell me?” “Fanchette. She is her Excellency’s lady. She likes to hear that these trees drink blood. They will supply right wedding tokens for the brides of brave men, she says.” The old florist, busy and preoccupied, had not recognised the stranger when the latter had ridden over from Colorno to visit his gardens; but Bissy had at once, and had offered to escort the gentleman whither he would. “It is down there, through the juniper thicket,” he said, pointing suddenly, with an air of shrewd confidence, “that one reaches the margin of the backwater where you first came upon her Excellency wading. Holy mother, what a state the old lady was in! It looked at first as if she would have liked to drink _your_ blood, signore. And then all at once she changed.” Tiretta took one step and nipped the elf by his ear. “Ow--ow!” wailed Bissy; completely flabbergasted. The chevalier looked formidable. “Your tongue is too long, whelp. Stand still a moment while I clip it for you.” “No, signore, don’t!” “I think I have no choice.” “For the love of the saints, signore. Ow--ow! I will tell you something. It is ill to hurt one who has tried to do you a service.” “What service?” “The ring, signore, that you threw away in a pet. I hunted for it, I did, when the water sank low in the creek; but I could not find it.” “You had no thought of me in the matter, you egg. You wanted it for yourself.” He seemed to warm from counterfeit to genuine anger as he spoke. He wrung the boy’s ear, so that the poor mannikin howled again. “I’ve a mind to pull it off for you. What the devil do you mean, daring to criticise the actions of your betters!” Suddenly conscious, in the midst of his fume, of its absurdity, he released his prisoner and stepped back. Poor Bissy, holding both hands to his smarting headpiece, stood wriggling and sniffing noisily. “Stop that!” commanded the chevalier; “or I shall have a double reason for gagging you.”