one, or was it Melema himself?" he added, looking at the notary with
a face ironically innocent.

"Melema? no, indeed," answered Ser Ceccone. "He is as close as a nut.
He never brags. That's why he's employed everywhere. They say he's
getting rich with doing all sorts of underhand work."

"It _is_ a little too bad," said Macchiavelli, "and so many able
notaries out of employment!"

"Well, I must say I thought that was a nasty story a year or two ago
about the man who said he had stolen jewels," said Cei. "It got hushed
up somehow; but I remember Piero di Cosimo said, at the time, he
believed there was something in it, for he saw Melema's face when the
man laid hold of him, and he never saw a visage so `painted with fear,'
as our sour old Dante says."

"Come, spit no more of that venom, Francesco," said Nello, getting
indignant, "else I shall consider it a public duty to cut your hair awry
the next time I get you under my scissors. That story of the stolen
jewels was a lie. Bernardo Rucellai and the Magnificent Eight knew all
about it. The man was a dangerous madman, and he was very properly kept
out of mischief in prison. As for our Piero di Cosimo, his wits are
running after the wind of Mongibello: he has such an extravagant fancy
that he would take a lizard for a crocodile. No: that story has been
dead and buried too long--our noses object to it."

"It is true," said Macchiavelli. "You forget the danger of the
precedent, Francesco. The next mad beggarman may accuse you of stealing
his verses, or me, God help me! of stealing his coppers. Ah!" he went
on, turning towards the door, "Dolfo Spini has carried his red feather
out of the Piazza. That captain of swaggerers would like the Republic
to lose Pisa just for the chance of seeing the people tear the frock off
the Frate's back. With your pardon, Francesco--I know he is a friend of
yours--there are few things I should like better than to see him play
the part of Capo d'Oca, who went out to the tournament blowing his
trumpets and returned with them in a bag."

CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

BY A STREET LAMP.

That evening, when it was dark and threatening rain, Romola, returning
with Maso and the lantern by her side, from the hospital of San Matteo,
which she had visited after vespers, encountered her husband just
issuing from the monastery of San Marco. Tito, who had gone out again
shortly after his arrival in the Via de' Bardi, and had seen little of