skin; he was beardless and as warty as a toad’s back; he never smiled, spoke little and seemed to be afraid lest the air should get within him and never get out again, for he only opened the corner of his mouth to emit a word or two, and screwed it down immediately he had done.  His poor deformed body was like that of Punchinello, a part for which he was famous in the theatres—­protuberant before, hunched up between his shoulders behind, and set upon little writhen fleshless legs like wooden spigots.  In manner he was excessively punctilious, grave, collected, oracularly sententious.  I know that he was exquisitely sensitive to ridicule and remorseless in punishing it.  It was not hard to understand—­ the moment I set eyes upon this poor monster—­that, with the young and beautiful Belviso masquerading as a woman by his side, trouble must succeed trouble without end.  On the other hand, I could not for the life of me see how the parts were to be reversed with any reasonable assurance.  But the good youth himself had no misgivings.

After an exchange of careful courtesies I addressed myself to the dwarf.  “Signor Aristarcho,” I said, “this charitable young man has assured me of your active sympathy with my anxieties.  You see before you a victim of fortune’s extremest spite, who can sue for your favours with nothing but his tears——­”

“Don’t shed them,” says he at the side of his mouth, “they are precious.”

“—­and offer you nothing in return but his thanks.  But I am speaking to a gentleman——­”

“You are not,” he said gruffly.  “You are speaking to a man.”

“—­of honour,” I pursued, “and sensibility.  In a word, I am speaking to a Christian.  If then you, a Christian, can save the soul of my young and newly wedded wife—­ah, Jesu! my darling from the lions——­”

He put up his hand.  “No more,” he said; “I will do what I can.”

I said, “Sir, my boundless gratitude——­”

“No more,” he stayed me; “I am paid already.”

“Alas, sir——­” I felt that I must go on; but he would not have it.

“You have called me a Christian,” he said.  “No one has ever called me that before.  I thank you.  I would die for you.”

“Live for me!” I cried.  “Sir, sir, sir, I do find that the lower my bodily fortunes descend, the nearer I get to the kingdom of Heaven.”

Aristarcho bowed gravely and said, “I thank you.  Count upon me.”

He bowed again profoundly, and I returned the salute.  When he had retired I told Belviso that I saw nothing in his state to deserve our pity, but that, on the contrary, I envied him the possession of a constant and discerning mind.

My friend replied, “Yes, yes, he is a good fellow and will serve you well.  You have earned his gratitude; but let me warn you again never to hurt his feelings.  You will be sorry for it for many a day.”