himself from measuring his length upon that filthy floor, a matter which
provoked a malicious guffaw from a tattered giant who watched with
interest his mincing advent.

Perspiring, and with nerves unstrung, the courtier picked his way to a
table by the wall, and seated himself upon the coarse deal bench before
it, praying that he might be left its sole occupant.

On the opposite wall hung a blackened crucifix and a small holy-water
stoup that had been dry for a generation, and was now a receptacle for
dust and a withered sprig of rosemary. Immediately beneath this--in the
company of a couple of tatterdemalions worthy of him--sat the giant who
had mocked his escape from falling, and as Gonzaga took his seat he heard
the fellow's voice, guttural, bottle-thickened and contentious.

"And this wine, Luciano? Sangue della Madonna! Will you bring it before
dropping dead, pig?"

Gonzaga shuddered and would have crossed himself again for protection
against what seemed a very devil incarnate, but that the ruffian's blood-
shot eye was set upon him in a stony stare.

"I come, cavaliere, I come," cried the timid host, leaping to his feet,
and leaving the goat to burn while he ministered to the giant's
unquenchable thirst.

The title caused Gonzaga to start, and he bent his eyes again on the
man's face. He found it villainous of expression, inflamed and blotched;
the hair hung matted about a bullet head, and the eyes glared fiercely
from either side of a pendulous nose. Of the knightly rank by which the