ecalling the description and history of
his gems, and assuring himself by rapid mental glances that he could
attest his learning and his travels. It might be partly owing to this
nervous strain that the new shock of rage he felt as Tito's lie fell on
his ears brought a strange bodily effect with it: a cold stream seemed
to rush over him, and the last words of the speech seemed to be drowned
by ringing chimes. Thought gave way to a dizzy horror, as if the earth
were slipping away from under him. Every one in the room was looking at
him as Tito ended, and saw that the eyes which had had such fierce
intensity only a few minutes before had now a vague fear in them. He
clutched the back of a seat, and was silent.

Hardly any evidence could have been more in favour of Tito's assertion.

"Surely I have seen this man before, somewhere," said Tornabuoni.

"Certainly you have," said Tito, readily, in a low tone. "He is the
escaped prisoner who clutched me on the steps of the Duomo. I did not
recognise him then; he looks now more as he used to do, except that he
has a more unmistakable air of mad imbecility."

"I cast no doubt on your word, Melema," said Bernardo Rucellai, with
cautious gravity, "but you are right to desire some positive test of the
fact." Then turning to Baldassarre, he said, "If you are the person you
claim to be, you can doubtless give some description of the gems which
were your property. I myself was the purchaser of more than one gem
from Messer Tito--the chief rings, I believe, in his collection. One of
them is a fine sard, engraved with a subject from Homer. If, as you
allege, you are a scholar, and the rightful owner of that ring, you can
doubtless turn to the noted passage in Homer from which that subject is
taken. Do you accept this test, Melema? or have you anything to allege
against its validity? The Jacopo you speak of, was he a scholar?"

It was a fearful crisis for Tito. If he said "Yes," his quick mind told
him that he would shake the credibility of his story: if he said "No,"
he risked everything on the uncertain extent of Baldassarre's
imbecility. But there was no noticeable pause before he said, "No. I
accept the test."

There was a dead silence while Rucellai moved towards the recess where
the books were, and came back with the fine Florentine Homer in his
hand. Baldassarre, when he was addressed, had turned his head towards
the speaker, and Rucellai believed that he had u