The young man was brilliantly, even what a later generation would have called 'loudly,' dressed. He had emerged from his temporary pupation a very tiger-moth; but the soul of the ignoble larva yet obtained between the gorgeous wings. Truckling, insinuative, and wicked throughout, he accosted his judge with a servile bow, as he stood cringing before him. Bembo mastered his antipathy.
'What! Messer cavalier,' he said, struggling to be gay. 'Art returned?'—for he guessed nothing of the truth. Then a kind thought struck him. 'Perchance thou comest as a bridegroom, bene meritus.'
Tassino glanced up an instant, and lowered his eyes. How he coveted the frank audacity of the Patrician swashbuckler, with which he had been made acquainted, but which he found impossible to the craven meanness of his nature. To dare by instinct—how splendid! No doubt there is that fox of self-conscious pusillanimity gnawing at the ribs of many a seeming-brazen upstart. He twined and untwined his fingers, and shook his head, and sobbed out a sigh, with craft and hatred at his heart. Bernardo looked grave.
'Alas, Messer Tassino!' said he: 'think how every minute of a delayed atonement is a peril to thy soul.'
This sufficed the other for cue.
'Atone?' he whined: 'wretch that I am! How could a hunted creature do aught but hide and shake?'
'Hunted!'
'O Messer Bembo! 'twas so simple for you to let loose the mad dog, and blink the consequences for others.'
'Mad dog!'
'Now don't, for pity's sake, go quoting my rash simile. Hast not ruined me enough already?'