ve curtain divided
in the centre; but its ample folds overlapped. After a while Gerard
felt drawn to peep through that curtain. He resisted the impulse. It
returned. It overpowered him. He left Plutarch; stole across the matted
floor; took the folds of the curtain, and gently gathered them up with
his fingers, and putting his nose through the chink ran it against a
cold steel halbert. Two soldiers, armed cap-a-pie, were holding their
glittering weapons crossed in a triangle. Gerard drew swiftly back; but
in that instant he heard the soft murmur of voices, and saw a group of
persons cringing before some hidden figure.

He never repeated his attempt to pry through the guarded curtain; but
often eyed it. Every hour or so an ecclesiastic peeped in, eyed him,
chilled him, and exit. All this was gloomy, and mechanical. But the next
day a gentleman, richly armed, bounced in, and glared at him. "What is
toward here?" said he.

Gerard told him he was writing out Plutarch, with the help of the
saints. The spark said he did not know the signor in question. Gerard
explained the circumstances of time and space that had deprived the
Signor Plutarch of the advantage of the spark's conversation.

"Oh! one of those old dead Greeks they keep such a coil about."

"Ay, signor, one of them, who, being dead, yet live."

"I understand you not, young man," said the noble, with all the dignity
of ignorance. "What did the old fellow write? Love stories?" and his
eyes sparkled: "merry tales, like Boccaccio."

"Nay, lives of heroes and sages."

"Soldiers and popes?"

"Soldiers and princes."

"Wilt read me of them some day?"

"And willingly, signor. But what would they say who employ me, were I to
break off work?"

"Oh, never heed that; know you not who I am? I am Jacques Bonaventura,
nephew to his holiness the Pope, and captain of his guards. And I came
here to look after my fellows. I trow they have turned them out of
their room for you." Signor Bonaventura then hurried away. This lively
companion, however, having acquired a habit of running into that little
room, and finding Gerard good company, often looked in on him, and
chattered ephemeralities while Gerard wrote the immortal lives.

One day he came a changed and moody man, and threw himself into chair,
crying, "Ah, traitress! traitress!" Gerard inquired what was his ill?
"Traitress! traitress!" was the reply. Whereupon Gerard wrote Plutarch.
Then says Bonaventura, "I am melanc