“Thou knowest our usages,” said the half-satisfied Genevese.

“I were a fool else!  Even the ass that often travels the same path comes in time to tell its turns and windings.  Art not satisfied with touching the pride of the worthy Nicklaus Wagner, by putting the well-warmed burgher to his proofs, but thou would’st e’en question me!  Come hither, Nettuno; thou shalt answer for both, being a dog of discretion.  We are no go-betweens of heaven and earth, thou knowest, but creatures that come part of the water and part of the land!”

The Italian spoke loud and confidently, and to the manner of one who addressed himself more to the humors of those near than to the understanding of the Genevese.  He laughed, and looked about him in a manner to extract an echo from the crowd, though not one among them all could probably have given a sufficient reason why he had so readily taken part with the stranger against the authorities of the town, unless it might have been from the instinct of opposition to the law.

“Thou hast a name?” continued the half-yielding, half-doubting guardian of the port.

“Dost take me to be worse off than the bark of Baptiste, there?  I have papers, too, if thou wilt that I go to the vessel in order to seek them.  This dog is Nettuno, a brute from a far country, where brutes swim like fishes, and my name is Maso, though wicked-minded men call me oftener Il Maledetto than by any other title.”

All in the throng, who understood the signification of what the Italian said, laughed aloud, and apparently with great glee, for, to the grossly vulgar, extreme audacity has an irresistible charm.  The officer felt that the merriment was against him, though he scarce knew why; and ignorant of the language in which the other had given his extraordinary appellation, he yielded to the contagion, and laughed with the others, like one who understood the joke to the bottom.  The Italian profited by this advantage, nodded familiarly with a good-natured and knowing smile, and proceeded.  Whistling the dog to his side, he walked leisurely to the bark, into which he was the first that entered, always preserving the deliberation and calm of a man who felt himself privileged, and safe from farther molestation.  This cool audacity effected its purpose, though one long and closely hunted by the law evaded the authorities of the town, when this singular being took his seat by the little package which contained his scanty wardrobe.

Chapter II.

  “My nobiel liege! all my request
  Ys for a nobile knyghte,
  Who, tho’ mayhap he has done wronge,
  Hee thoughte ytt stylle was righte.”

  Chatterton.