ich doubtless will clear up everything," said Tito. "That is all the
Latin--all the conclusions that are to be proved true or false by the
trial. The rest you can perceive is simply a proclamation of the
Signoria in good Tuscan, calling on such as are eager to walk through
the fire, to come to the Palazzo and subscribe their names. Can I serve
you further? If not--"

Tito, as he turned away, raised his cap and bent slightly, with so easy
an air that the movement seemed a natural prompting of deference.

He quickened his pace as he left the Piazza, and after two or three
turnings he paused in a quiet street before a door at which he gave a
light and peculiar knock. It was opened by a young woman whom he
chucked under the chin as he asked her if the Padrone was within, and he
then passed, without further ceremony, through another door which stood
ajar on his right-hand. It admitted him into a handsome but untidy
room, where Dolfo Spini sat playing with a fine stag-hound which
alternately snuffed at a basket of pups and licked his hands with that,
affectionate disregard of her master's morals sometimes held to be one
of the most agreeable attributes of her sex. He just looked up as Tito
entered, but continued his play, simply from that disposition to
persistence in some irrelevant action, by which slow-witted sensual
people seem to be continually counteracting their own purposes. Tito
was patient.

"A handsome _bracca_ that," he said, quietly, standing with his thumbs
in his belt. Presently he added, in that cool liquid tone which seemed
mild, but compelled attention, "When you have finished such caresses as
cannot possibly be deferred, my Dolfo, we will talk of business, if you
please. My time, which I could wish to be eternity at your service, is
not entirely my own this morning."

"Down, Mischief, down!" said Spini, with sudden roughness.
"Malediction!" he added, still more gruffly, pushing the dog aside;
then, starting from his seat, he stood close to Tito, and put a hand on
his shoulder as he spoke.

"I hope your sharp wits see all the ins and outs of this business, my
fine necromancer, for it seems to me no clearer than the bottom of a
sack."

"What is your difficulty, my cavalier?"

"These accursed Frati Minori at Santa Croce. They are drawing back now.
Fra Francesco himself seems afraid of sticking to his challenge; talks
of the Prophet being likely to use magic to get up a false miracle--
think