n cheeks flamed crimson, and
her eyes fell, as if in token that she realised the meanness of her
bearing. To some natures there can be nothing more odious than such a
realisation, and of those, I think, was she; for she stamped her foot
in a sudden pet, and curtly asked the host why there was such delay with
the horses.

"They are at the door, Madonna," he protested, bowing as he spoke. "And
your escort is already waiting in the saddle."

She turned and strode abruptly towards the threshold. Over her shoulder
she called to me:

"If you come with us, Boccadoro, you had best be brisk."

"I follow, Madonna," said I, with a grim relish, "so soon as I have paid
the reckoning."

She halted and half turned, and I thought I saw a slight droop at the
corners of her mouth.

"You are keeping count of what I owe you?" she muttered.

"Aye, Madonna," I answered, more grimly still, "I am keeping count." And
I thought that my wits were vastly at fault if that account were not to
be greatly swelled ere Pesaro was reached. Haply, indeed, my own life
might go to swell it. I almost took a relish in that thought. Perhaps
then, when I was stiff and cold--done to death in her service--this
handsome, ungrateful child would come to see how much discomfort I had
suffered for her sake.

My thoughts still ran in that channel as we rode out of Pesaro, for I
misliked the way in which those knaves disposed themselves about us.
In front went Madonna Paola; and immediately behind her, so that their
horses' heads were on a level with her saddle-bow, one on each side,
went two of those ruffians. The third, whom I had heard them call
Stefano, and who was the one who had made her the offer of their
services, ambled at my side, a few paces in the rear, and sought to draw
me into conversation, haply by way of throwing me off my guard.

Mistrust is a fine thing at times. "Forewarned is forearmed," says the
proverb, and of all forewarnings there is none we are more likely
to heed than our own mistrust; for whereas we may leave unheeded the
warnings of a friend, we seldom leave unheeded the warnings of our
spirit.

And so, while my amiable and garrulous Ser Stefano engaged me in
pleasant conversation--addressing me ever as Messer the Fool, since he
knew me not by name--I wrapped my cloak about me, and under cover of it
kept my fingers on the hilt of my stout Pistoja dagger, ready to draw
and use it at the first sign of mischief. For that sign I was