Shortly after this, with a few words of polite excuse, he broke up the table and retired with his partner.  The rest of the company gave itself up to pleasures which were as zestful as they were free.  It may be imagined that I had little taste for such simple sports as these worthy persons could devise.  I sat, an unhappy spectator of their gambols—­but a diversion of a vigorous kind was at hand.  In the midst of the scuffling and babel of voices in the kitchen I heard the strident tones of the cavaliere, evidently in a great rage.

“Where is that dastardly dog?  Where is that villain of a cook?” I heard him roar on the stairs.  “Bring me that scoundrel that I may slit his ears!” At this moment he burst through the doors, a terrific spectacle of fury, his eyes burning like fires, his face inflamed, his drawn sword in his hand.  The company scattered to the walls or dived beneath the tables, chairs were overturned, the maids began to scream.

He glared about him at the desert he had made.  “Produce me the cook, you knaves,” cried he, “or I mow you down like thistles.”  The master-cook’s face peeped through the gently opened door, and the cavaliere, across the room in two strides, seized his victim by the ear and pulled him headlong into the kitchen.  “Hound!” he roared, “and son of a hound!  Take the punishment you have earned.”

“Sir, sir!” says the unhappy cook, “what have I done?”

“Done!” cries the cavaliere, screwing him unmercifully by the ear, “you have compassed my death by your infernal arts.  I am poisoned—­a dying man, but my last ounce of strength shall be enough to avenge me.”  So said, he began to belabour the wretch with the flat of his sword, and at each stroke the cook gave a howl of terror.  His poor little mistress ran out of her concealment and clung to his helpless person, seeking to receive upon hers the blows as they fell.  It was then that I interposed.

“Cavaliere,” I said, “you are acting, with I know not what justice, against a man who has just proved more hospitable to me than yourself has thought fit to do.  I must now tell you that any further indignity offered to him must be considered as done to me.”

He paused in his furious attack, and “Ha!” says he, “here’s the husband.”  He began to laugh; he laughed with such gusto and abandoned himself to such uproarious mirth that very soon all the company except myself was laughing with him.  All of a sudden he stopped, with a mighty serious face.  “Harkee, my friend,” says he to me, “upon reflection I do believe that I have been hasty.  The spasm passes.  It may well be that it was the excellence of this honest man’s catering which betrayed me, and not any infernal design.  A passing cholic, after all!” He smiled benevolently upon his recent prisoner.  “Rise, my worthy friend,” said he, “and receive a pardon from the right hand of fellowship, sugared, as I hope, to your liking.”  His hand was full of gold pieces.  “Nobody shall say,” he added proudly, “that Aquamorta cannot requite good service, because he knows so well how to reprimand bad service.”  The cook humbly thanking his Excellency, the storm was over.