I should have resented this comedy of thunderstorms more hotly than I did if I had not believed the friar to be mad.  But I was very much offended by the titles of dishonour most improperly bestowed upon me, and was determined to have done with their inventor.  “Sir,” I said, “you have done me a service, I allow, and I am much obliged to you; but I am constrained to point out that I have carried your baggage on my shoulder for some five or six miles.  You gave me your confidences unasked and undesired.  It matters, no thing to me whether your name be Palamone or Graffiacane, nor how far you choose to disgrace your habit or molest the charitable.  Now you have acted like a maniac, and if I did my duty I should give proper information in the proper quarter.  Instead of that, I restore you your bundle, and wish you a good evening.”

Fra Palamone had been watching me, studying my face intently as I spoke, his arms folded over his labouring chest.  He had, before the close of a dignified, if somewhat sententious, address, recovered his breath, and completely his gravity.  “My dear young gentleman,” he said, “I admire your spirit as much as your person and manner.  All three puzzle me, I must say.  So young and so rhetorical!  So simple and so polished—­an egg! an egg!  Are you English, Dutch, Irish?  What the devil are you?  You won’t tell me, and I don’t know.  But with all you say of my whirligig self I entirely and heartily agree.  That at least is to the good.  I propose that we sit down here and now, and discuss your affairs—­for what better can we do?  A grassy bank! the scent of leaves! a fading sun—­the solemn evening air!  Nature invites!  Come, what do you say?  We will eat and drink of the best, for I and my sack are no mean caterers.  We’ll make all snug for the night, and rise up betimes better friends than ever for our late little difference of opinion.”

Nothing could have been less to my taste; the man inspired me with extreme disgust.  “Fra Palamone,” I said firmly, “our ways separate here.  I go to Pistoja, you where you please; or, do you go to Pistoja, I shall take the other road.  I commend you to God, I salute you, I thank you, and hope I shall never see you again.”

“English!” cried Fra Palamone, slapping his forehead.  “Now I know with whom I am dealing.  Who else commends his enemy to God and hopes that the devil will step in?” He looked me up and down triumphantly, grating his upper lip with that fierce tusk of his.  “If I were in the humour, boy,” he said, “which you may thank Madonna I am not, I could have you on your back in two ticks, and your hands tied behind you.  I could take every paul off you—­ah, and every stitch down to your shirt.  But no! you are a gentleman.  I prefer to take your hand, being confident that we shall meet again in a few days’ time from now.  Hold your way to Pistoja, since so you will have it.  I am never deceived in my man.  I know you and all your concerns as well as if you were my own son—­and better, a deal.  You have your troubles before you, brought upon you by your own headiness—­ your own insufferable piety and crass conceit.  And I, young sir, and I am one of them.  That you will find out.”