He could not tell himself what had provoked him to the assault. The nature of a particularly unpalatable reminder might have been responsible for it. No self-respect likes to have recalled to it the processes of past humiliations, even though it directly owes to them its present position. Help a nerveless subject to decision, help a diffident lover to his mistress, but never thereafter imply to either of them that he was once other than the masterful hero your assistance made him. Not that Bissy had been of much assistance to our hero on a certain occasion. Only things had altered since then; the old atmosphere of bitterness had sweetened to a strange new flavour. Seeing the boy, with swollen lids and puckered face, trying to repress his sobs, remorse gripped Tiretta. That passion was always his besetting weakness. It urged him to reparations which were even more ill-advised than the hasty acts which led to them. If he had been unduly angry, he was inclined now to be unduly lenient. “Come,” he said; “I haven’t killed you. Tell me the truth; what would you have done with the ring if you had found it?” Bissy, morally chastened, gulped and snuffled. “I should have done the honest thing, signore.” “Good boy,” said Tiretta. And then he added magnanimously: “Well, if you are successful, you can keep it for your pains.” That was generous of him, since the ring did not belong to him to dispose of--a conclusion perhaps shrewdly appreciated by the owlish urchin. “I do not want it,” said Bissy, aggrieved and righteous. “The most I should expect would be a lira for my trouble. Her Excellency, no doubt, will give me that for her slipper.” “What slipper, boy?” “The one she lost in the pool. I found that, though I could not find the other.” A sudden warmth seemed to suffuse Tiretta’s whole being. He held out his hand nonchalantly. “I am staying at Colorno. I shall probably see her Highness this afternoon. Give it me, and I will return it to her.” Bissy, still wiping his eyes, shook his head. “I want the credit myself. Besides, I have not got it with me.” “Listen here: I will give you a golden ducat for it.” “Why, signore?” Why, indeed? The shameful fool blushed before that small inquisitor. He stammered: “I--I offended her Highness that day. It will serve as a peace-offering.” “A dirty one,” said Bissy. “It is all stained and muddy.” Tiretta had one infallible argument with the obdurate. It was the one which came to him naturally and confidently. He put his hand quite caressingly on the boy’s shoulder. “Very well,” he said: “it does not matter. But, inasmuch as I have wronged you, child, I am going to atone with a song. Would you like to hear me make music?” “If you please, signore.” Tiretta penetrated a little way among the trees, and stopped, resting his back against a trunk. “Sit there,” he said; and Bissy, allured and wondering, squatted before him like a toad.