with his arm on the shoulder of San
Giovanni Battista, who was offering him a piece of honeycomb."

"It is well, Francesco," said Nello. "Florence has a few thicker skulls
that may do to bombard Pisa with; there will still be the finer spirits
left at home to do the thinking and the shaving. And as for our Piero
here, if he makes such a point of valour, let him carry his biggest
brush for a weapon and his palette for a shield, and challenge the
widest-mouthed Swiss he can see in the Prato to a single combat."

"_Va_, Nello," growled Piero, "thy tongue runs on as usual, like a mill
when the Arno's full--whether there's grist or not."

"Excellent grist, I tell thee. For it would be as reasonable to expect
a grizzled painter like thee to be fond of getting a javelin inside thee
as to expect a man whose wits have been sharpened on the classics to
like having his handsome face clawed by a wild beast."

"There you go, supposing you'll get people to put their legs into a sack
because you call it a pair of hosen," said Piero. "Who said anything
about a wild beast, or about an unarmed man rushing on battle? Fighting
is a trade, and it's not my trade. I should be a fool to run after
danger, but I could face it if it came to me."

"How is it you're so afraid of the thunder, then, my Piero?" said Nello,
determined to chase down the accuser. "You ought to be able to
understand why one man is shaken by a thing that seems a trifle to
others--you who hide yourself with the rats as soon as a storm comes
on."

"That is because I have a particular sensibility to loud sounds; it has
nothing to do with my courage or my conscience."

"Well, and Tito Melema may have a peculiar sensibility to being laid
hold of unexpectedly by prisoners who have run away from French
soldiers. Men are born with antipathies; I myself can't abide the smell
of mint. Tito was born with an antipathy to old prisoners who stumble
and clutch. Ecco!"

There was a general laugh at Nello's defence, and it was clear that
Piero's disinclination towards Tito was not shared by the company. The
painter, with his undecipherable grimace, took the tow from his
scarsella and stuffed his ears in indignant contempt, while Nello went
on triumphantly--

"No, my Piero, I can't afford to have my _bel erudito_ decried; and
Florence can't afford it either, with her scholars moulting off her at
the early age of forty. Our Phoenix Pico just gone straight to
Paradise,