d it was of the vintage they
discoursed, the fine yield of grapes about Fontana Fredda, and the heavy
crop of oil that there would be that year. And then with the hum of
their voices gradually receding, it ceased altogether for me, and I was
asleep with my head pillowed upon my arms.

It would be an hour later when I awakened, a little stiff and cramped
from the uncomfortable position in which I had rested. The peasants had
departed and the surly-faced host was standing at my side.

"You should be resuming your journey," said he, seeing me awake. "It
wants but a couple of hours to sunset, and if you are going over the
pass it were well not to let the night overtake you."

"My journey?" said I aloud, and looked askance at him.

Whither, in Heaven's name, was I journeying?

Then I bethought me of my earlier resolve to seek shelter in some
convent, and his mention of the pass caused me to think now that it
would be wiser to cross the mountains into Tuscany. There I should be
beyond the reach of the talons of the Farnese law, which might close
upon me again at any time so long as I was upon Pontifical territory.

I rose heavily, and suddenly bethought me of my utter lack of money.
It dismayed me for a moment. Then I remembered the mule, and determined
that I must go afoot.

"I have a mule to sell," said I, "the beast in your stables."

He scratched his ear, reflecting no doubt upon the drift of my
announcement. "Yes?" he said dubiously. "And to what market are you
taking it?"

"I am offering it to you," said I.

"To me?" he cried, and instantly suspicion entered his crafty eye and
darkened his brow. "Where got you the mule?" he asked, and snapped his
lips together.

The girl entering at that moment stood at gaze, listening.

"Where did I get it?" I echoed. "What is that to you?"

He smiled unpleasantly. "It is this to me: that if the bargelli were to
come up here and discover a stolen mule in my stables, it would be an
ill thing for me."

I flushed angrily. "Do you imply that I stole the mule?" said I, so
fiercely that he changed his air.

"Nay now, nay now," he soothed me. "And, after all, it happens that I do
not want a mule. I have one mule already, and I am a poor man, and..."

"A fig for your whines," said I. "Here is the case. I have no money--not
a grosso. So the mule must pay for my dinner. Name your price, and let
us have done."

"Ha!" he fumed at me. "I am to buy your stolen beast, am I? I am