endent on him. His
position as an alien, his indifference to the ideas or prejudices of the
men amongst whom he moved, were suddenly transformed into advantages; he
became newly conscious of his own adroitness in the presence of a game
that he was called on to play. And all the motives which might have
made Tito shrink from the triple deceit that came before him as a
tempting game, had been slowly strangled in him by the successive
falsities of his life.

Our lives make a moral tradition for our individual selves, as the life
of mankind at large makes a moral tradition for the race; and to have
once acted nobly seems a reason why we should always be noble. But Tito
was feeling the effect of an opposite tradition: he had won no memories
of self-conquest and perfect faithfulness from which he could have a
sense of falling.

The triple colloquy went on with growing spirit till it was interrupted
by a call from the table. Probably the movement came from the listeners
in the party, who were afraid lest the talkers should tire themselves.
At all events it was agreed that there had been enough of gravity, and
Rucellai had just ordered new flasks of Montepulciano.

"How many minstrels are there among us?" he said, when there had been a
general rallying round the table. "Melema, I think you are the chief:
Matteo will give you the lute."

"Ah, yes!" said Giannozzo Pucci, "lead the last chorus from Poliziano's
`Orfeo,' that you have found such an excellent measure for, and we will
all fall in:--

"`Ciascum segua, o Bacco, te:
Bacco, Bacco, evoe, evoe!'"

The servant put the lute into Tito's hands, and then said something in
an undertone to his master. A little subdued questioning and answering
went on between them, while Tito touched the lute in a preluding way to
the strain of the chorus, and there was a confusion of speech and
musical humming all round the table. Bernardo Rucellai had said, "Wait
a moment, Melema;" but the words had been unheard by Tito, who was
leaning towards Pucci, and singing low to him the phrases of the
Maenad-chorus. He noticed nothing until the buzz round the table
suddenly ceased, and the notes of his own voice, with its soft low-toned
triumph, "Evoe, evoe!" fell in startling isolation.

It was a strange moment. Baldassarre had moved round the table till he
was opposite Tito, and as the hum ceased there might be seen for an
instant Baldassarre's fierce dark eyes bent on Tito's brig