“And in that a hundred fine farms, with a castle or two thrown in, to say nothing, perhaps, of a palace,” I said, reaching out my hand and touching the rapier which he was just in the act of depositing on the chair.

“So your father won with his good right arm,” Pons retorted.  “But what your father won he held.”

Here Pons paused to hold up to scorn my new scarlet satin doublet—­a wondrous thing of which I had been extravagant.

“Sixty ducats for that,” Pons indicted.  “Your father’d have seen all the tailors and Jews of Christendom roasting in hell before he’d a-paid such a price.”

And while we dressed—­that is, while Pons helped me to dress—­I continued to quip with him.

“It is quite clear, Pons, that you have not heard the news,” I said slyly.

Whereat up pricked his ears like the old gossip he was.

“Late news?” he queried.  “Mayhap from the English Court?”

“Nay,” I shook my head.  “But news perhaps to you, but old news for all of that.  Have you not heard?  The philosophers of Greece were whispering it nigh two thousand years ago.  It is because of that news that I put twenty fat farms on my back, live at Court, and am become a dandy.  You see, Pons, the world is a most evil place, life is most sad, all men die, and, being dead . . . well, are dead.  Wherefore, to escape the evil and the sadness, men in these days, like me, seek amazement, insensibility, and the madnesses of dalliance.”

“But the news, master?  What did the philosophers whisper about so long ago?”

“That God was dead, Pons,” I replied solemnly.  “Didn’t you know that?  God is dead, and I soon shall be, and I wear twenty fat farms on my back.”

“God lives,” Pons asserted fervently.  “God lives, and his kingdom is at hand.  I tell you, master, it is at hand.  It may be no later than to-morrow that the earth shall pass away.”

“So said they in old Rome, Pons, when Nero made torches of them to light his sports.”

Pons regarded me pityingly.

“Too much learning is a sickness,” he complained.  “I was always opposed to it.  But you must have your will and drag my old body about with you—­a-studying astronomy and numbers in Venice, poetry and all the Italian fol-de-rols in Florence, and astrology in Pisa, and God knows what in that madman country of Germany.  Pish for the philosophers!  I tell you, master, I, Pons, your servant, a poor old man who knows not a letter from a pike-staff—­I tell you God lives, and the time you shall appear before him is short.”  He paused with sudden recollection, and added:  “He is here, the priest you spoke of.”

On the instant I remembered my engagement.

“Why did you not tell me before?” I demanded angrily.

“What did it matter?” Pons shrugged his shoulders.  “Has he not been waiting two hours as it is?”

“Why didn’t you call me?”