o his aid:

"Good sir," said he, with some timidity, "will you do me the honour to
share a flagon with me?"

The ruffian's eye, which but a moment back had looked vacuous and
melancholy, now quickened until it seemed ablaze. He raised his
bloodshot orbs and boldly encountered Gonzaga's uneasy glance. His lips
fell apart with an anticipatory smack, his back stiffened, and his head
was raised until his chin took on so haughty a tilt that Gonzaga feared
his proffered hospitality was on the point of suffering a scornful
rejection.

"Will I share a flagon?" gasped the fellow, as, being the sinner that he
was and knew himself to be, he might have gasped: "Will I go to Heaven?"
"Will I--will I----?" He paused, and pursed his lips. His eyebrows were
puckered and his expression grew mighty cunning as again he took stock
of this pretty fellow who offered flagons of wine to down-at-heel
adventurers like himself. He had all but asked what was to be required
of him in exchange for this, when suddenly he bethought him--with the
knavish philosophy adversity had taught him--that were he told for what
it was intended that the wine should bribe him, and did the business
suit him not, he should, in the confession of it, lose the wine; whilst
did he but hold his peace until he had drunk, it would be his thereafter
to please himself about the business when it came to be proposed.

He composed his rugged features into the rude semblance of a smile.

"Sweet young sir," he murmured, "sweet, gentle and most illustrious
lord, I would share a hogshead with such a nobleman as you."

"I am to take it that you will drink?" quoth Gonzaga, who had scarce
known what to make of the man's last words.

"Body of Bacchus! Yes. I'll drink with you gentile signorino, until your
purse be empty or the world run dry." And he leered a mixture of mockery
and satisfaction.

Gonzaga, still half uncertain of his ground, called the taverner
and bade him bring a flagon of his best. While Luciano was about the
fetching of the wine, constraint sat upon that oddly discordant pair.

"It is a chill night," commented Gonzaga presently, seating himself
opposite his swashbuckler.

"Young sir, your wits have lost their edge. The night is warm.

"I said," spluttered Gonzaga, who was unused to contradiction from his
inferiors, and wished now to assert himself, "that the night is chill."

"You lied, then," returned the other, with a fresh leer, "for, as I
answered yo