I was greatly disgusted by now at the false position in which I had been put, and should assuredly have found my tongue had I not perceived that the trick was succeeding.  One of the officers said that he would go to perdition rather than have a mute heathen on his hands, the other encouraged the Capuchin to hope for the best.  The Grand Duke might rally; he had the strength of a cow and the obstinacy of an old woman.  In fact, I was pushed over the frontier after my supposed owner without further ceremony, and soon joined him.  The old scoundrel moved painfully off, dragging one leg after the other; but no sooner had the winding of the road concealed him than, erect and replete once more, he clapped me heartily on the back and began to crow and caper his delight in the mountain airs.  I watched him with mingled feelings, half gratitude, half disgust.

CHAPTER XI

I EXERCISE COMMON SENSE, IMAGINATION AND CHARITY

“Was not that fine comedy in an old grey-bearded Capuchin dog?” cried the frate, leaping about and cracking his fingers.  “Could you have bettered it?  Could any man living have bettered it?  Confess me an old rogue-in-grain, or I break every bone in your body.”

“It is not for me to confess you one thing or another, Fra Clemente—­to call you so”—­I replied; “except that you have made me party to some abominable falsehoods.  However, I have benefited by them, and am willing to believe that you acted for the best, which is more than I can say for your endeavours upon our last meeting at Rovigo.  May I remind you of that?”

If I had hoped to startle him I was very much mistaken.  The Capuchin at once sobered down, and became confidential and affectionate.  He put his arm round my neck and spoke with feeling.  “You have as good a memory as I have, I see,” he said, laughing pleasantly.  “I had not intended to recall to your mind a time when I confess to having been the victim of prejudice.  And without going so far as to say that I followed you solely to remove your suspicions—­that would not be the truth—­I shall own that I had you much in my thoughts, and hoped more than once that we might cross paths.  My prayer is answered.  I shall set to work to convince you of my good intentions towards you.  Perfect confidence of man to man—­ shall it not be so?  If I cannot help you it will be surprising:  you have seen how I can help myself.”

I did not again remind him that I had seen that very clearly when, at Rovigo, his foot had been clapped upon my coins; but Fra Clemente, if that were his name, saw that it was remembered.

“Your money, let me say, would have been safer with me than with that oily thief Issachar,” he said calmly, “but let that pass.  You saw fit to trust him, and now you can judge how far I am to be trusted.  I have nothing to complain of and nothing to hide.  I hope you can say the same.”  I was silent.