He leered at me.  “My Francis!  When—­and at what hour of day or night have I not been ready to serve you?”

“Why, that’s as may be,” said I.  “I think I could remind you of a night attack at Pistoja——­”

“Oh, cruel,” he said, “oh, cruel!”

“Of a ravishment—­of the strappado applied to a man bound hand and foot—­”

He pretended to weep.  “Cruel, cruel Francis!”

“Of detestable treachery in Florence when you set to work to entrap a good girl who had done you no harm in the world—­and, Fra Palamone, I think I may remind you of the payment of those services of yours in kind, in the Piazza of Santa Maria.”

With clasped hands, streaming eyes, he beamed upon me.  “Generous hand!  Oh, healing, life-giving blood!”

“I am glad,” I said, “that you consider yourself healed by bleeding.  But now, it appears, you have appointed yourself messenger from my friends, and have succeeded in benefiting me without extraordinary robbery.  I cannot suppose that you did this for love.”

“Believe it,” says he, “believe it, Francis.”

“You must forgive me if I cannot,” said I.  “On the contrary, I believe that you have acted for what profit you can make out of it.  I never asked you to interfere in my affairs, and owe you less than nothing, but to make an end of you, since you do, perhaps, believe that you have served me with this late news of what you, no doubt, would call my ’good fortune,’ I will give you more than you deserve.”  I counted out ten guineas, or their equivalent, and held them out to him.

His eyes gleamed, as if a fire had suddenly been kindled in them by the sight of money.  He pounced at my hand and emptied it, as a dog scrapes in the ground.  Holding his coins close to his breast, he snarled at me of his astuteness, and took obscene pride in his guile.  “Is Palamone an old fool then?  Eh, mercy and truth, was there ever such a wise old fox born into this world?  Did I not, when I saw you at Rovigo, lay this finger to this nose, and say, ’La, la, Palamone, fratello, here is a pigeon for your plucking hand’?  Did I not know you for an Englishman, for a nobleman born?  For what do you take me?  I knew that you had run away out of a scrape, I knew that the money-bags would be emptied to find you.  Wise old Palamone!  Deep-browed old night-bird!  Darkly thinking, quickly acting old Fox-Palamone!  And now, take heed to this, I have never lost you, but have been hard on your heels though Jesuits and Ministers and woman after woman have beset you on all sides.  And what have I gained by all this?  A wound in the breast, my conscience!  A slug through the lung, on the word of a Christian—­and my Francis, the child of my sorrow, fed upon my tears, talks to me of profit—­O Dio!  O Dio!” He wrung his hands and howled; then, grinning like a wolf, he came creeping to me, his fingers gripping the air like claws.  “Give me more money, Francis, you who have so much—­give me the guineas of England, fifty, a hundred, a thousand—­what are they to you?  To me they are meat and drink, Paradise and the Mercy Seat.”  He was now hovering close to me, terribly possessed by greed.  “If you do not give me money, Francis, I shall kill you with these hands.”  So he threatened me, raving.