ave waited so long." Then he was off at score about his Jonah in Bury
Refectory, and what I'd said of it, and his pictures in the chapel which
all men praised and none looked at twice (as if that was _my_ fault!)
and a whole parcel of words and looks treasured up against me through
years.

'"Ease off your arm a little," I said. "I cannot die by choking, for I
am just dubbed knight, Benedetto."

'"Tell me, and I'll confess ye, Sir Harry Dawe, knight. There's a long
night before ye. Tell," says he.

'So I told him--his chin on my crown--told him all; told it as well and
with as many words as I have ever told a tale at a supper with
Torrigiano. I knew Benedetto would understand, for, mad or sad, he was a
craftsman. I believed it to be the last tale I'd ever tell top of mortal
earth, and I would not put out bad work before I left the lodge. All
art's one art, as I said. I bore Benedetto no malice. My spirits, d'you
see, were catched up in a high, solemn exaltation, and I saw all earth's
vanities foreshortened and little, laid out below me like a town from a
cathedral scaffolding. I told him what befell, and what I thought of it.
I gave him the King's very voice at "Master Dawe, you've saved me thirty
pounds!" his peevish grunt while he looked for the sword; and how the
badger-eyed figures of Glory and Victory leered at me from the Flemish
hangings. Body o' me, 'twas a fine, noble tale, and, as I thought, my
last work on earth.

'"That is how I was honoured by the King," I said. "They'll hang ye for
killing me, Benedetto. And, since you've killed in the King's Palace,
they'll draw and quarter you; but you're too mad to care. Grant me,
though, ye never heard a better tale."

'He said nothing, but I felt him shake. My head on his chest shook; his
right arm fell away, his left dropped the knife, and he leaned with both
hands on my shoulder--shaking--shaking! I turned me round. No need to
put my foot on his knife. The man was speechless with laughter--honest
craftsman's mirth. The first time I'd ever seen him laugh. You know the
mirth that cuts off the very breath, while ye stamp and snatch at the
short ribs? That was Benedetto's case.

'When he began to roar and bay and whoop in the passage, I haled him out
into the street, and there we leaned against the wall and had it all
over again--waving our hands and wagging our heads--till the watch came
to know if we were drunk.

'Benedetto says to 'em, solemn as an owl: "You h