And then another voice seemed to arise within me, to cry out impatiently:  “Yes, yes; but how?”

I rose, and approaching the table, I took up the jug of wine and poured myself a draught.  I drank it off, and cast the dregs at an inquisitive rat that had thrust its head above the boards.  Then I quenched the light, and flung myself once more upon my bed, in the hope that darkness would prove a stimulant to thought and bring me to the solution I was seeking.  It brought me sleep instead.  Unconsciously I sank to it, my riddle all unsolved.

I did not wake until the pale sun of that January morning was drawing the pattern of my lattice on the ceiling.  The stormy night had been succeeded by a calm and sunlit day.  And by its light the place wore a more loathsome look than it had done last night, so that at the very sight of it I leapt from my couch and grew eager to be gone.  I set a ducat on the table, and going to the door I called my hostess.  The stairs creaked presently ’neath her portentous weight, and, panting slightly, she stood before me.

At sight of me, for I was without my cloak, and my motley was revealed in the cold, morning light, she cried out in amazement first, and then in rage—­deeming me one of those parasites who tramp the world in the garb of folly, seeking here a dinner, there a bed, in exchange for some scurvy tumbling or some witless jests.

“Ossa di Cristo!” was her cry.  “Have I housed a Fool?”

“If I am the first you have housed, your tumbling ruin of a tavern has been a singularly choice resort.  Woman—­”

“Would you ‘woman’ me?” she stormed.

“Why, no,” said I politely.  “I was at fault.  I’ll keep the title for your husband—­God help him!”

She smiled grimly.

“And are these,” she asked, with a ferocious sarcasm, “the jests with which you pay the score?”

“Jests?” quoth I.  “Score?  Pish!  More eyes, less tongue would more befit a hostess who has never housed a fool.”  And with a splendid gesture I pointed to the ducat gleaming on the table.  At sight of the gold her eyes grew big with greed.

“My master—­” she began, and coming forward took the piece in her hand, to assure herself that she was not the dupe of magic.  “A fool with gold!” she marvelled.

“Is a shame to his calling,” I acknowledged.  Then—­“Get me a needle and a length of thread,” said I. She scuttled off to do my bidding, like nothing so much as one of the rats that tenanted her unclean sty.  She was back in a moment, all servility, and wondering whether there was a rent about me she might make bold to stitch.  What a key to courtesy is gold, my masters!  I drove her out, and eager to conciliate me, she went at once.

With my own hands I effected in my doublet the slight repair of which it stood in need.  Then I donned my hat, and, cloak on shoulder, made my way below, calling for my horse as I descended.