ue conventual, he was something of a master in the confection--and a
very glutton in the consumption--of delectable comestibles. The kitchen
was to him as the shrine of some minor cult, and if his breviary
and beads commanded from him the half of the ecstatic fervour of his
devotions to pot and pan, to cauldron and to spit, then was canonisation
indeed assured him.

He set before them that day a dinner than which a better no prince
commanded, unless it were the Pope. There were ortolans, shot in the
valley, done with truffles, that made the epicurean Gonzaga roll his
eyes, translated through the medium of his palate into a very paradise
of sensual delight. There was a hare, trapped on the hillside, and
stewed in Malmsey, of a flavour so delicate that Gonzaga was regretting
him his heavy indulgence in the ortolans; there was trout, fresh caught
in the stream below, and a wondrous pasty that turned liquid in the
mouth. To wash down these good things there was stout red wine of Puglia
and more delicate Malvasia, for in his provisioning of the fortress
Gonzaga had contrived that, at least, they should not go thirsty.

"For a garrison awaiting siege you fare mighty well at Roccaleone," was
Francesco's comment on that excellent repast.

It was the fool who answered him. He sat out of sight upon the floor,
hunched against the chair of one of Valentina's ladies, who now and
again would toss him down a morsel from her plate, much as she might
have treated a favourite hound.

"You have the friar to thank for it," said he, in a muffled voice, for
his mouth was crammed with pasty. "Let me be damned when I die, if I
make him not my confessor. The man who can so minister to bodies should
deal amazingly well with souls. Fra Domenico, you shall confess me after
sunset."

"You need me not," answered the monk, in disdainful wrath. "There is a
beatitude for such as you--'Blessed are the poor in spirit.'"

"And is there no curse for such as you?" flashed back the fool. "Does it
say nowhere--'Damned are the gross of flesh, the fat and rotund gluttons
who fashion themselves a god of their own bellies'?"

With his sandalled foot the friar caught the fool a surreptitious kick.

"Be still, you adder, you bag of venom."

Fearing worse, the fool gathered himself up.

"Beware!" he cried shrilly. "Bethink you, friar, that anger is a
cardinal sin. Beware, I say!"

Fra Domenico checked his upraised hand, and fell to muttering scraps of
L