"What a question! Are you joking?"

"Why should I? Look at me; I cannot write anything but my name. True, I
can write it with either hand; and what else do I want to know?"

"You astonish me greatly, for I thought you were a priest."

"I am a monk; I say the mass, and, as a matter of course, I must know how
to read. Saint-Francis, whose unworthy son I am, could not read, an that
is the reason why he never said a mass. But as you can write, you will
to-morrow pen a letter in my name to the persons whose names I will give
you, and I warrant you we shall have enough sent here to live like
fighting cocks all through our quarantine."

The next day he made me write eight letters, because, in the oral
tradition of his order, it is said that, when a monk has knocked at seven
doors and has met with a refusal at every one of them, he must apply to
the eighth with perfect confidence, because there he is certain of
receiving alms. As he had already performed the pilgrimage to Rome, he
knew every person in Ancona devoted to the cult of Saint-Francis, and was
acquainted with the superiors of all the rich convents. I had to write to
every person he named, and to set down all the lies he dictated to me. He
likewise made me sign the letters for him, saying, that, if he signed
himself, his correspondents would see that the letters had not been
written by him, which would injure him, for, he added, in this age of
corruption, people will esteem only learned men. He compelled me to fill
the letters with Latin passages and quotations, even those addressed to
ladies, and I remonstrated in vain, for, when I raised any objection, he
threatened to leave me without anything to eat. I made up my mind to do