ught was one of thankfulness for my release
from this hell-cat, but as I stood with my arms pinioned Monna Afra
brought forward a large sack and, as I understood from her expressive
gestures, demanded that I should be sewn up therein and cast into the
Tiber.

Though he had thrown aside the cloak in which he had previously
disguised, I recognised the man whom I had already twice seen in the
gaudily accoutred officer whom Afra now addressed as Hayraddin.

He spoke to her very earnestly, and I could see that what he said caused
her the greatest consternation, for she tore her hair, howled and
scratched her own face as vehemently as she had formerly maltreated
mine.

Shaking her by the arm he continued to admonish her, until picking up
the casket she retired into the interior of the villa. Then turning to
me he addressed me in good Italian in these words:

"Most noble Signor: You cannot fail to have understood that my sister
desired me to kill you, and that I could readily have done so; but I
have explained to her that you are a great astrologer, for from the
appearance of the heavens you announced to me yesterday the
assassination of her son which news has not yet reached Rome--and has
but this moment been told to me by a party of my men who intercepted the
messenger at the Ponte Molle.

"In deference to your supernatural knowledge I spare your life, and
shall leave you here bound and gagged, where in good time you will
doubtless be discovered. This news of the death of my nephew has
effected more than all my arguments and entreaties, for my sister has no
further desire to remain in this accursed land, but will return with me
to Africa."

Scarcely had he concluded when Monna Afra entered, heavily veiled and
carrying an immense bundle. This one of the pirates took from her, and
supported by two others she followed her brother and I saw her no more.

It was two full days, during which I neither ate nor drank, before I was
released from my miserable plight, but even so I counted myself
fortunate to have escaped with my life.

II

"Ye mariners of Spain
Bend stoutly to your oars
And bring my love again,
For he lies among the Moors."

_Old Spanish Song._

Foreseeing after the death of Duke Alessandro that Florence would long
remain in a disordered condition, I deemed it a proper season to accept
the overtures of his majesty, Francis I., King of the French, to enter
into his service in France.