ignorant of your adventure; I will be your surgeon myself.

Contarino.--What has happened to me, say you? Oh! a joke,
gentlemen, a mere joke. Here, Falieri, fill the bowl again.

Memmo.--I can scarcely breathe for terror.

Contarino.--Very possibly; neither should I, were I Memmo instead of
being Contarino. The wound bleeds plenteously it's true, but it's
by no means dangerous (he tore open his doublet, and uncovered his
bosom). There, look, comrades; you see it's only a cut of not more
than two inches deep.

Memmo (shuddering).--Mercy on me! the very sight of it makes my
blood run cold.

Parozzi brought ointments and linen, and bound up the wound of his
associate.

Contarino.--Old Horace is in the right. A philosopher can be
anything he pleases, a cobbler, a king, or a physician. Only
observe with what dignified address the philosopher Parozzi spreads
that plaster for me. I thank you, friend; that's enough: and now,
comrades, place yourselves in a circle round me, and listen to the
wonders which I am going to relate.

Falieri.--Proceed.

Contarino.--As soon as it was twilight, I stole out, wrapped in my
cloak, determined if possible to discover some of the banditti. I