, and he was rather surprised that it should
not have happened already.

As an optimist, on the other hand, he trusted that by his own exertions
he might so dispose matters as that his master and Ortensia should be
murdered while in a state of grace, and not in mortal sin; to be plain,
he was determined that they should be duly married before Pignaver's
agents despatched them. For he had been constrained to aid and abet his
master in more than one romantic adventure before now, and nothing had
come of any of them that was at all conducive to the young man's
salvation.

Poor Cucurullo knew the whole process of those affairs, as the
conjurer's assistant knows how the tricks are done. Even when Stradella
was at home, in his own room, his man had always been able to tell
whether he was in love or not. When he was not, he industriously
composed oratorios, or motets, or some other kind of serious music; but
when he was, he sang to himself, as a bird does in spring, improvising
both the words and the melody; or else he would sit still for an hour at
a time, doing nothing, but dreaming with open eyes and slightly parted
lips; or he would pace the floor impatiently, and go to the door every
five minutes to listen for a light footfall on the stairs. All this
Cucurullo had observed frequently; often, too, he had carried letters
and tokens, and had brought others back; and not a few times, by night,
he had held cloak and lute and rapier, while his master climbed up to a
balcony or a window high above. Many such things had Cucurullo done, and
had confessed them afterwards as misdeeds. Wretched sinner that he was,
he had even paid flattering compliments to a chambermaid to sweeten her
humour till she promised to take a message to her lady. This had seemed
to him particularly wicked, yet he had done it and would do it again, if
Stradella required such service, simply because he could not help it.

Now, however, all former adventures sank to nothing in comparison with
the present one. So far, the musician had lightly loved and ridden away;
but this time he had not ridden away alone, and, moreover, he was not
carrying off the buxom wife or daughter of some meek citizen who would
appeal in vain to the law and could do nothing without it, and who would
probably let the erring lady return to his home at the trifling price of
a sound beating when Stradella was tired of her. That would have been
bad enough, in all conscience; but this time