“Listen here: I will give you a golden ducat for it.”
“Why, signore?”
Why, indeed? The shameful fool blushed before that small inquisitor. He stammered:
“I—I offended her Highness that day. It will serve as a peace-offering.”
“A dirty one,” said Bissy. “It is all stained and muddy.”
Tiretta had one infallible argument with the obdurate. It was the one which came to him naturally and confidently. He put his hand quite caressingly on the boy’s shoulder.
“Very well,” he said: “it does not matter. But, inasmuch as I have wronged you, child, I am going to atone with a song. Would you like to hear me make music?”
“If you please, signore.”
Tiretta penetrated a little way among the trees, and stopped, resting his back against a trunk.
“Sit there,” he said; and Bissy, allured and wondering, squatted before him like a toad.