p, the bloom as of a
peach on his cheeks. But you could never mistake him for a girl. His
eyes had a critical blink, he looked to have the discretion of a man. A
fop he might be; he had a wiry mind. A fop, in fact, he was. He had a
little scarlet cap on his head, scarlet stockings, peaked scarlet shoes:
for the rest he was in green cloth with a blue leather belt about his
waist. He had fine lace ruffles at his wrists, a fine line of white at
his throat, and in his ears (if you could have seen them) gold rings.
Just the pampered young minion of any Tuscan court, a precocious
wrappage of wit, good manners, and sensibility, he looked what he spoke,
the exquisite Florentine, to these broad-vowelled Venetian lasses; did
not smile, but seemed never out of temper; and was certainly not timid.
Self-possessed, reticent he was; but not timid. That was proved.

When the cavalcade was on the point to start, Angioletto stepped forward
and took Bellaroba by the hand.

"Little lady," says he to his blushing captive, "I have a mule for the
road which I am assured is a steady pacer. Will you be my pillion?"

"Oh, yes, Messere," said Bellaroba in a twitter, and dropped him a
curtsy of her best.

"Excellent!" he cried gaily. "I can see that we are to be friends." So
she was led away.

He helped her on to the mule in no time, showed her how she must hold
him round the middle, how closely and how constantly; he explained how
little there was to fear, for all that such a manner of going was as
venturesome to her as a steamer would have seemed to Ulysses, that great
captain. It was then that Olimpia (watching all this) proved Angioletto
not timid, for she saw him conclude his precepts to her friend by
kissing her cheek in the easiest manner. "H'm," thought the wise
Olimpia, "I pray that Bellaroba may be careful."

She herself accepted the services and part of the horse of a lean
Ravennese, a Captain of Lances--two yards of sinew and brown
leather--who told her that his name was Mosca, and his heart bleeding at
her feet. Olimpia smiled beautifully upon him, but was careful; took a
share of the courser, but gave in return nothing more than a hand on its
master's belt. He wanted much more, and showed it. Olimpia, far from
coy, hinted an exchange. She needed her bearings; did this apparent hero
know Ferrara? The Mosca snorted, threw back his head at the word.
Ferrara? cried he, did he know it! Saints and Angels, who could know it
better? "