“With the Swiss that is well paid to be vigilant!” answered the Genoese, laughing in a way to show that he had only revived one of those standing but biting jests, that they who love each other best are perhaps most accustomed to practice.

The Baron de Willading took the facetiousness of his friend in good part, returning the mirth of the other in a manner to show that the allusion recalled days when their hours had idly passed in the indulgence of spontaneous outbreakings of animal spirits.

“Were this thy Italy, Gaetano, a sequin would not only supply the place of a dozen signatures, but, by the name of thy favorite, San Francesco! it would give the honest gate-keeper that gift of second-sight on which the Scottish seers are said to pride themselves.”

“Well, the two sides of the Alps will keep their characters, even though we quarrel about their virtues—­but we shall never see again the days that we have known!  Neither the games of Vevey, nor the use of old jokes, will make us the youths we have been, dear de Willading!”

“Signore, a million of pardons,” interrupted Baptiste, “but this western wind is more inconstant even than the spirits of the young.”

“The rogue is again right, and we forget yonder cargo of honest travellers, who are wishing us both in Abraham’s bosom, for keeping the impatient bark in idleness at the quay.  Good Marcelli, hast thou aught to suggest in this strait?”

“Signore, you forget that we have another document that may be found sufficient”—­the person questioned, who appeared to fill a middle station between that of a servant and that of a companion, rather hinted than observed: 

“Thou sayest true—­and yet I would gladly avoid producing it—­but anything is better than the loss of thy company, Melchior.”

“Name it not!  We shall not separate, though the Winkelried rot where she lies.  ’Twere easier to separate our faithful cantons than two such friends.”

“Nay, noble baron, you forget the wearied pilgrims and the many anxious travellers in the bark.”

“If twenty crowns will purchase thy consent, honest Baptiste, we will have no further discussion.”

“It is scarce in human will to withstand you, noble Sir!—­Well, the pilgrims have weary feet, and rest will only fit them the better for the passage of the mountains; and as for the others, why let them quit the bark if they dislike the conditions.  I am not a man to force my commerce on any.”

“Nay, nay, I will have none of this.  Keep thy gold, Melchior, and let the honest Baptiste keep his passengers, to say nothing of his conscience.”

“I beseech your excellency,” interrupted Baptiste, “not to distress yourself in tenderness for me.  I am ready to do far more disagreeable things to oblige so noble a gentleman.”

“I will none of it!  Signor officer, wilt thou do me the favor to cast a glance at this?”