But Moll was not content with this promise of justice.  For the quality of mercy begetteth love, so that one cannot moderate one’s anger against an enemy, but it doth breed greater compassion and leniency by making one better content with oneself, and therefore more indulgent to others.  And so, when she had left the room, she sends in her maid to fetch me, and taking me aside says with vivacity: 

“I will have no punishment made upon that man.”

“Nay,” says I, “but if ’tis proved that his intent was to rob you—­”

“What then!” says she.  “Hath he not as much right to this estate as we?  And are we one whit the better than he, save in the more fortunate issue of our designs?  Understand me,” adds she, with passion; “I will have nothing added to his unhappiness.”

I found the young man seated at the table, and Don Sanchez gravely setting food before him.  But he would take nothing but bread, and that he ate as though it were the sweetest meat in all the world.  I lead the Don to the window, and there, in an undertone, told him of Moll’s decision; and, whether her tone of supreme authority amused him or not, I cannot say, because of his impassive humour, but he answered me with a serious inclination of his head, and then we fell speaking of other matters in our usual tone, until the young man, having satisfied the cravings of nature, spoke: 

“When you are at liberty, gentlemen,” says he, “to question my conduct, I will answer you.”

CHAPTER XIX.

Of the business appointed to the painter, and how he set about the same.

The young man had risen and was standing by the table when we turned from the window; he seemed greatly refreshed, his face had lost its livid hue of passion and death, and looked the better for a tinge of colour.  He met our regard boldly, yet with no braggart, insolent air, but the composure of a brave man facing his trial with a consciousness of right upon his side.

“I would ask you,” says the Don, seating himself on t’other side the table, “why you refused to do that before?”

“Sir,” answers he, “I have lost everything in the world save some small modicum of pride, which, being all I have, I do cherish, maybe, unduly.  And so, when these unmannerly hinds took me by the throat, calling on me to tell my name and business, this spirit within me flaring up, I could not answer with the humility of a villain seeking to slink out of danger by submissive excuses.”

“Be seated,” says the Don, accepting this explanation with a bow.  “How may we call you?”

“In Venice,” replies the other, with some hesitation, “I was called Dario—­a name given me by my fellow-scholars because my English name was not to their taste.”

“Enough,” says the Don.  “I can understand a man of better fortune, as I perceive you have been, wishing in such a position as this to retain his incognito.  There are no parks in Venice, to my knowledge, but surely, sir, you would not enter a palazzo there uninvited without some reasonable pretext.”