"Body of Bacchus! Yes. I'll drink with you gentile signorino, until
your purse be empty or the world run dry." And he leered a mixture of
mockery and satisfaction.

Gonzaga, still half uncertain of his ground, called the taverner and bade
him bring a flagon of his best. While Luciano was about the fetching of
the wine, constraint sat upon that oddly discordant pair.

"It is a chill night," commented Gonzaga presently, seating himself
opposite his swashbuckler.

"Young sir, your wits have lost their edge. The night is warm.

"I said," spluttered Gonzaga, who was unused to contradiction from his
inferiors, and wished now to assert himself, "that the night is chill."

"You lied, then," returned the other, with a fresh leer, "for, as I
answered you, the night is warm. Piaghe di Cristo! I am an ill man to
contradict, my pretty gallant, and if I say the night is warm, warm it
shall be though there be snow on Mount Vesuvius."

The courtier turned pink at that, and but for the arrival of the taverner
with the wine, it is possible he might have done an unconscionable
rashness. At sight of the red liquor the fury died out of the ruffler's
face.

"A long life, a long thirst, a long purse, and a short memory!" was his
toast, into whose cryptic meaning Gonzaga made no attempt to pry. As the
fellow set down his cup, and with his sleeve removed the moisture from
his unshorn mouth, "May I not learn," he inquired, "whose hospitality I