'Trust the rogue, Beatrice; it is, indeed, near the marrow of deliciousness.'
She sipped of her glass delicately, and nodded. The cavalier held out his for more.
'Malvasia, hog?'
'Malvasia, most honoured; trod out by the white feet of prettiest contadina, and much favoured, by the token, of the Abbot of San Zeno yonder.'
Messer Lanti looked up with a new good-humour. The party was halted in a great flat basin among hills, on one of the lowest of which, remote and austere, sparkled the high, white towers of a monastery.
'There,' he said, signifying the spot to his companion with a grin; 'hast heard of Giuseppe della Grande, Beatrice, the father of his people?'
'And not least of our own little Parablist, Madonna,' put in the landlord, with a salutation.
'Plague, man!' cried Lanti; 'who the devil is this Parablist you keep throwing at us?'
'They call him Bernardo Bembo, my lord. He was dropped and bred among the monks—some by-blow of a star, they say, in the year of the great fall. He was found at the feet of Mary's statue; and, certes, he is gifted like an angel. He mouths parables as it were prick-songs, and is esteemed among all for a saint.'
'A fair saint, i'faith, to be carousing in a tavern.'