Weathercock, I think--or, perhaps, St. Mountebank."
What followed was equally bitter and sardonic on his part, fiercely and
openly hostile on mine. At my hostility he had smiled cruelly.
"Be content with what is, my strolling saint," he said, in the tone of one
who gives a warning, "unless you would be back in your hermitage, or within
the walls of some cloister, or even worse. Already have you found it a
troublesome matter to busy yourself with the affairs of the world. You
were destined for sanctity." He came closer, and grew very fierce. "Do
not put it upon me to make a saint of you by sending you to Heaven."
"It might end in your own dispatch to Hell," said I. "Shall we essay it?"
"Body of God!" he snarled, laughter still lingering on his white face. "Is
this the mood of your holiness at present? What a bloodthirsty brave are
you become! Consider, pray, sir, that if you trouble me I have no need to
do my own office of hangman. There is sufficient against you to make the
Tribunal of the Ruota very busy; there is--can you have forgotten it?--that
little affair at the house of Messer Fifanti."
I dropped my glance, browbeaten for an instant. Then I looked at him
again, and smiled
"You are but a poor coward, Messer Cosimo," said I, "to use a shadow as a
screen.
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