from which a beam protruded,
laden at that moment with a ghastly burden just discernible in the
thickening gloom. He named it well when he called it his "flagstaff,"
and the miserable banner of carrion that hung from it was a fitting
pennon for the ruthless Governor of Cesena. Worthy was he to have worn
the silver hauberk of Werner von Urslingen with its motto, "The enemy of
God, of pity and of mercy."

Forbidding, black-browed men caught me with rough hands and dragged me
off to a dank, unlighted prison, as empty of furniture as it was full of
noisome smells. And there they left me to my ugly thoughts and my
deeply despondent mood what time the Governor of Cesena supped with his
officers in the hall of the Castle.

Ramiro drank deep that night as was his habit, and being overladen
with wine it entered his mind that in one of his dungeons lay Lazzaro
Biancomonte, who, at one time, had been known as Boccadoro, the merriest
Fool in Italy. In his drunkenness he grew merry, and when Ramiro del'
Orca grew merry men crossed themselves and betook them to their prayers.
He would fain be amused, and to serve that end he summoned one of his
sbirri and bade the fellow drag Boccadoro from his dungeon and fetch him
into his presence.

When they came for me I turned cold with fear that Madonna was already
taken, and, by contrast with such a fear as that, the reflection that he
might carry out his threat to hang me from that black beam of his, faded
into insignificant proportions.

They ushered me into a great hall, not ill-furnished, the floor strewed
plentifully with rushes, and warmed by an enormous fire of blazing oak.
By the door stood two pikemen in armour, like a pair of statues; in the
centre of the floor was a heavy oaken board, laden now with flagons and
beakers, at which sat Ramiro with a pair of gossips so villainous to
look at, that the sight of them reminded me of the adage "God makes a
man and then accompanies him."

The Governor made a hideous noise at sight of me, which I was
constrained to accept as an expression of horrid glee.

"Boccadoro," said he, "do you recall that when last I had the honour of
being entertained by your pert tongue, I promised you that did you ever
cross my path again I would raise you to the dignity of Fool of my Court
of Cesena?"

Into what magniloquence does vanity betray us! His Court of Cesena! As
well might you describe a pig-sty as a bower of roses.

But his words, despite the