led down her hood. Her patience was rewarded in no long time
by the sound of an approaching cavalcade; presently she saw the nodding
plumes of riders and their beasts at the end of the street. Knights,
squires, and ladies rode with their reigning prince: he himself with two
young men, magnificently dressed, came in advance of the troop, and at a
great pace.

Olimpia judged her time well. At the moment Duke Borso drew rein to turn
into his gates she threw back her hood and looked him full in the face,
as if to dower him with all the splendour of her beauty. The sly,
humorous face of the old fox twitched as his eyes caught the girl's. He
looked a prude with a touch of freakishness in him; his pursed mouth
seemed always to be strangling a smile, the issue of the strife always
in doubt. Now, for instance, though Olimpia said to herself that she was
satisfied, she could never have denied that he disapproved of her, while
nobody could have maintained it. Borso had shot upon her a piercing
glance the minute in which he had turned his horse; Mosca had had the
benefit of another; then he had acknowledged in military fashion the
waving caps and kerchiefs at the gates and had passed into the
courtyard.

"Oh, you may be satisfied, my soul," said the Mosca. "Borso will never
forget us now: it is not his way. But look, look!" Another pair of eyes
was at work, belonging to a very handsome, ruddy youth who had been at
the Duke's left hand. Olimpia needed no nudge from the Captain to tell
her who this noble rider might be. Guarino Guarini for a florin! And so
it was.

"Yes," said Mosca, "that is my most intrepid master. The flaxen lad in
silver brocade, who was on the other side, is Teofilo Calcagnini, of
whom I know little more than that he is Duke Borso's shadow. You shall
hardly see them apart. The other, my charmer, the other is our man.
Leave me to deal with him. Come now to the inn. To-morrow you shall have
your hired house, and the next day company for it more to your taste
than lean old Mosca."

"I shall never forget you, my Captain," said the really grateful
Olimpia; and said truer than she knew. "Come," she added, "we should
seek out Bellaroba and her little sweetheart. There must be an end of
that pretty gentleman, my friend."

"By the majesty of King Solomon, there shall be an end," Mosca swore,
and pricked his horse.

Angioletto and his lady-love had been better exercised than to think of
dukes. They had thought of