“Let me tell you,” he went on, “that my name in religion is Palamone—­ Fra Palamone”—­here his tones became lighter, as he soared from the injured benefactor’s into a jauntier suit.  “Yes, I am that Fra Palamone, known all over Tuscany for the most wheedling, good-natured, cunning, light-fingered and light-hearted old devil of a Capuchin that ever hid in St. Francis’ wound.  Hey! but I’m snug in my snuff-coloured suit.  My poor old father—­God have him after all his pains!—­put me there, to lie quiet and nurse my talent, and so I do when times are hard.  But the waxing moon sees me skipping, and you will no more keep me long off the road than your cur upon it.  I must be out and about—­in the kitchen to tease the wenches, into the taverns for my jug of wine, off to the fairs, where the ducats blow like thistle-down; under the gallows to see my friends dance, at the gaol doors against delivery; the round of the pillories, a glance at the galleys—­with a nose for every naughty savour and an ear for every salted tale.  I have prospered, I was made to prosper.  This good belly of mine, this broad, easy gullet, these hands, this portly beard, which may now get as white as it can, since I have done with gossip Fra Clemente—­a wrist of steel, fingers as hard as whipcord, and legs like anchor-cables; all these were fostered and made able by brown St. Francis’ merry sons.  Fra Palamone, dear unknown, Fra Palamone, ever your servant!  And now—­“here, with another revolting change, he turned his lips back to show his tooth—­“And now,” said he, “you fish-eyed, jelly-gutted, staring, misbegotten bottle of bile, who in the deuce’s name lent you the impudence to listen to my confidential histories without so much as letting me know your fool’s name—­hey?”

The ferocious invective of this peroration accorded so ill with his prattling exordium that I was left with nothing but a gaze.  This I gave him liberally; but he went on, lashing himself into fury, to use every vernacular oath he could lay tongue to.  He swore in Venetian, in Piedmontese, in Tuscan.  He swore Corsican, Ligurian, Calabrian, Spanish, Hebrew, Arabian and Portuguese.  He shook his fists in my face, dangerously near my astonished eyes; he leaped at me, gnashing his teeth like a fiend; he bellowed injuries, shocking allegations impossible to be proved, horrible guesses at my ancestry, he barked like a dog, bayed at me on all fours; finally whirling his staff over his head, he rushed at me as if to dash my brains out—­then, cooling as suddenly as he had boiled over, stopped short, looked quizzically at me, blew out his cheeks and let his breath escape in a volley.  “Poh!” says he, “Poh! what an old Palamone we have here,” threw down his staff and came towards me all smiles, his arms extended.

“Admirable youth!” he cried heartily, “give me your hands.  I love you dearly; we shall be fast friends, I can see.  Kiss me, boy, kiss me.”