waxed
and stood up stiffly. He was the taller of the two, but his hat hung
lower in his hand than his friend's, for he had unnaturally long arms,
with a long body and short legs, whereas the fair man with the turned-up
nose was remarkably well-proportioned.

'Who says we have no good music in Venice?' inquired the latter at last,
fixing his round eyes on the other's face angrily, and pressing down the
hilt of his sword so as to make the point stick up behind.

His mouth looked ridiculously small, and his pink cheeks were very large
and round. His companion had long ago come to the conclusion that he was
very like one of those rosy cherubs that roll about the clouds in the
religious pictures painted in those times, blowing their trumpets till
they look as if their red cheeks must burst. Accordingly, he had
nicknamed his friend 'Trombin,' short for 'trombino,' a 'little
trumpeter.'

The dark man had always gone by the name of Gambardella, and seemed
quite satisfied with the appellation. The two had been companions in
their profession for several years, but neither knew much of the other's
antecedents, and both were far too proud, or too tactful, or too
prudent, to ask questions. They wore the dress and weapons of gentlemen,
and were extremely ticklish as to the point of honour; but they did not
now sit in the Grand Council of the Venetian Republic, though each
perceived that the other had once enjoyed that privilege, and had
forfeited it for the good of his native city. They travelled a great
deal, always together, and their friends knew that they met with
frequent and sudden changes of fortune. Their clothes were shabby now,
yet scarcely six months ago they had been seen strolling arm in arm in
Florence, in the Piazza della Signoria, arrayed in silks and satins and
fine linen. Only their weapons were never replaced in prosperity by
handsomer swords with gilded hilts, nor exchanged in adversity for
others of less perfect balance and temper.

'This Stradella sings like an angel,' said Gambardella after a moment.
'I hear that he composes good music himself, and that his new oratorio
will be performed before the Doge in Saint Mark's next Sunday.'

'If we had any money,' observed Trombin regretfully, 'we would hire a
house and ask him to supper.'

'Yes,' answered Gambardella in a melancholy tone. 'Our Venetians do not
understand these things. To them a man of genius like Alessandro
Stradella is just a music-master, an