Ramiro drank deep that night as was his habit, and being overladen with wine it entered his mind that in one of his dungeons lay Lazzaro Biancomonte, who, at one time, had been known as Boccadoro, the merriest Fool in Italy. In his drunkenness he grew merry, and when Ramiro del’ Orca grew merry men crossed themselves and betook them to their prayers. He would fain be amused, and to serve that end he summoned one of his sbirri and bade the fellow drag Boccadoro from his dungeon and fetch him into his presence. When they came for me I turned cold with fear that Madonna was already taken, and, by contrast with such a fear as that, the reflection that he might carry out his threat to hang me from that black beam of his, faded into insignificant proportions. They ushered me into a great hall, not ill-furnished, the floor strewed plentifully with rushes, and warmed by an enormous fire of blazing oak. By the door stood two pikemen in armour, like a pair of statues; in the centre of the floor was a heavy oaken board, laden now with flagons and beakers, at which sat Ramiro with a pair of gossips so villainous to look at, that the sight of them reminded me of the adage “God makes a man and then accompanies him.” The Governor made a hideous noise at sight of me, which I was constrained to accept as an expression of horrid glee. “Boccadoro,” said he, “do you recall that when last I had the honour of being entertained by your pert tongue, I promised you that did you ever cross my path again I would raise you to the dignity of Fool of my Court of Cesena?” Into what magniloquence does vanity betray us! His Court of Cesena! As well might you describe a pig-sty as a bower of roses. But his words, despite the unsavoury thing of which they seemed to hold a promise, fell sweetly on my ear, inasmuch as for the time they relieved my fears touching Madonna. It was not to advise me of her capture that he had had me haled into his odious presence. I gathered courage. “Have you not fools enough already at Cesena?” I asked him. A moment he looked as if he were inclining to anger. Then he burst into a coarse laugh, and turned to one of his gossips. “Did I not tell you, Lampugnani, that his wit was quick and penetrating? Hear him, rogue. Already has he discerned your quality.” He laughed consumedly at his own jest, and turning to me he pointed to a crimson bundle on a chair beside me. “Take those garments,” he roughly bade me. “Go dress yourself in them, then come you back and entertain us.”