“Ho, Fra Clemente,” says one, “on the round again, it appears!” The Capuchin quavered his admission, his hand shook as he proffered his passport.  Yes, yes, poor Brother Clement must live, find consolation if he could.  A festival at Prato called him, a great affair; but he was getting very sadly, as his friends might see, could not keep the road much longer.  The Customs officers gave him back his papers with scarcely a glance to spare for them, and had no ears for his maundering, so occupied were they with me, his companion.  “Whom have we here, Fra Clemente?” said one presently, and sent my heart into my throat.  But the Capuchin sniggered and touched his nose with his finger; there was an air of low cunning about him very unpleasant to observe.  “This, Sor Giacomo,” says he with a cackle, “is a little surprise for the Grand Duke—­a specimen, a rarity, a pretty thing.  This is a Scythian youth, deaf and dumb from his birth, but very taking, as you can see.  ’Tis the best thing I’ve picked up on my travels for many a year, and a fortune to me.  Why, if I can present this handsome lad to his Highness, you may have me back upon you in my bishop’s coach and six!  And there will still be men of my religion who will have got more for doing less, let me tell you.  You’re never going to spoil an old friend’s industry for the sake of a dumb heathen!”

“Heathen!” cries the fellow.  “Is he a heathen?  Do you suppose you may offer the Grand Duke a heathen?  You’ll have the Inquisition upon you, my man, for certain sure, and the Cardinal Archbishop for once on their side.  Into the water with him before you touch Florence, or out with your knife.  Make a Christian or a Jew of him.”

“Ay,” says his colleague, handling me as if I had been an Odalisque, “Ay, and the prince, between you and me, is near his time.  His menagerie may go to the dogs for all he cares, Jews and infidels, blacks and whites and all.  He sees little but the doctors and the priests in these days.”

“What!  Has it come to that?” says the Capuchin, peering through what seemed to be rheumy eyes.  “If it have indeed, then may Heaven be his friend, for he’ll need one.  Tut! so I’ve spent my ducats for nothing, it seems.”  He shook his pretended convoy roughly by the shoulder.  “Accursed Scythian, that ever I set eyes upon thee!  Forty ducats, signori, of hard money to a Venice ship’s-chandler who had him, I know, from a Tripoli merchant for half the sum.  And a hardy, healthy, tall, propagating rogue he is, by the looks of him.  Well, well, you may keep him for me.  I am just a broken old man!” He spat upon the ground and appeared to ruminate upon his hard fortune.