all the town hated. This man had been warned that
someone would come in the guise of a poor beggar and take his life.
Nicolas gave orders that the castle was to be strictly guarded. A few
days later luckless Ginepro appeared in the vicinity of the castle. On
the way thither some young men had seized him, torn his cloak, and
covered him with dust, so that he was a sight to behold for rags and
dirt! As soon as he came near the castle he was taken as a suspicious
character and cruelly beaten. He was asked who he was.

"I am a great sinner," was the answer. He certainly looked like a
ruffian!

When further asked his designs he explained,

"I am a great traitor, and unworthy of any mercy."

Then they asked if he meant to burn the castle and kill Nicolas.

"Worse things than these would I do, only for God," he replied. Such
a hardened, boldfaced criminal never stood before a bar!

He was taken, tied to a horse's tail, and dragged through the town to
the gallows. If it had not been for the intervention of a good man in
the crowd, who knew the friars, he would have been hung.

[Sidenote: _Ginepro's Dinner._]

"Brother Ginepro," said one of the friars one day, "we are all going
out, and by the time we come back will you have got us a little
refreshment?"

"Most willingly," said Ginepro, "leave it to me."

Out he went with a sack, and asked food from door to door for his
brethren. Soon he was well laden and returned home.

"What a pity it is," said Ginepro to himself, as he put on two great
pots, "that a brother should be lost in the kitchen! I shall cook
enough dinner to serve us for two weeks to come, and then we'll give
ourselves to prayer."

So saying, he piled in everything, salt meat, fresh meat, eggs in their
shells, chickens with the feathers on, and vegetables. One of the friars
who returned before the others, was amazed to see the two enormous pots
on a roaring fire with Ginepro poking at them alternately, protected
from the heat by a board he had fastened round his neck. At last dinner
was ready, and, pouring it out before the hungry friars, he said
complacently,

"Eat a good dinner now, and then we'll go to prayer, there'll be no
more cooking for a long time to come, for I have cooked enough for a
fortnight."

Alas! one historian informs us, "there was never a hog in the campagna
of Rome so hungry that he could have eaten it."

But, in spite of all the curious tales we read about the blunderings
o