Tucca’s visitor stepped towards the doorway, where his face might meet the fast-increasing light, and he threw back the ample burnoose from his head. The ancient legs of the wine-grower shook beneath him. He became fully awake; for the classic face of Zeno, the Emperor’s steward, looked down upon him, as perfect and beautiful as if sculptured in tinted marble, but with the cold, metallic eyes which were fatal to all accompanying grace.
‘It is my worshipful Zeno!’ exclaimed Tucca, with gestures of abject humility and apology. ‘Pardon, noble Zeno; but how could your servant know you in this light and with that hood over your face—and with my eyes too—seventy-five years old? But why come here so early in the cold? Come into—no, I mean—a—a—what can old Tucca do to serve your worship?’
‘Thank you, Tucca. Had I thought fit to go into your house I would have done so without an invitation, knowing your esteem and love for me. But,’ continued Zeno, with a meaning smile, ‘I knew it would not be convenient for you, since you harbour guests beneath your roof. I thought it best to speak with you out of doors first before I ran the chance of making myself an intruder, unwelcome as it might be. Shall we go in now?’
‘Well—ah—it is hardly fit to receive you—at this time of day—nothing in order or——’
‘No matter for that,’ said Zeno, interrupting the stammering and confused old man; ‘I only want a seat and a draught of wine.’
‘Then wait only one minute until I tell my wife, and she will straighten up and make tidy for your worship,’ returned Tucca, turning to trot out of the arbour.
Zeno caught him by the arm.
‘Not so fast,’ said he; ‘I have changed my mind. Old fool, did I not know for a surety that you had those I speak of within your house, your very manner would have revealed it to me, as plainly as written parchment telling the same. Do you deny it?’
‘Most worshipful——’ began Tucca imploringly.
‘Do you deny, I say?’