e only possible conclusion they suggested. The hats of the
other messengers from Vitelli, that the officer had mentioned, had been
brought to Ramiro. The reason for this that at once arose in my mind
was that within the messenger's hat there was a second and more secret
communication for the Governor.

This secrecy and Ramiro's display of anger at seeing a hint of it
betrayed by Lampugnani struck me, not unnaturally, as suspicious. What
were these hidden communications that passed between Vitellozzo Vitelli
and the Governor of Cesena? It was a matter of which I could not pretend
to offer a solution, but, nevertheless, it was one, I thought, that
promised to repay investigation.

Ramiro grew impatient, and my reflections suffered interruption by his
rough command that I should hasten. One of the men-at-arms helped me to
truss my points, and when that was done I stepped forward--Boccadoro the
Fool once more.

CHAPTER XVII. THE SENESCHAL

For an hour or so that night I played the Fool for Messer Ramiro's
entertainment in a manner which did high justice to the fame that at
Pesaro I had earned for the name of Boccadoro.

Beginning with quip and jest and paradox, aimed now at him, now at the
officer who had remained to keep him company in his cups, now at the
servants who ministered to him, now at the guards standing at attention,
I passed on later to play the part of narrator, and I delighted his foul
and prurient mind with the story of Andreuccio da Perugia and another
of the more licentious tales of Messer Giovanni Boccacci. I crimson now
with shame at the manner in which I set myself to pander to his mood
that with my wit I might defend my life and limbs, and preserve them for
the service of my Holy Flower of the Quince in the hour of her need.

One man alone of all those present did I spare my banter. This was the
old seneschal, Miriani. He stood at his post by the buffet, and ever and
anon he would come forward to replenish Messer Ramiro's cup in obedience
to the monsters imperious orders.

What fortitude was it, I wondered, that kept the old man outwardly so
calm? His face was as the face of one who is dead, its features set and
rigid, its colour ashen. But his step was tolerably firm, and his hand
seemed to have lost the trembling that had assailed it under the first
shock of the horror he had witnessed.

As I watched him furtively I thought that were I Ramiro I should beware
of him. That frozen calm ar