‘I will note your character in this respect, Vincenzio,’ said the judge approvingly.
‘They will probably bring up before your worship the story against my father, that he stole the cloak of the Cancelliere Martelli, when he was performing the part of Pontius Pilate in the holy mysteries at Sienna; but we have the documents at home——’
‘Are they registered?’
‘I believe not, Eccelenza.’
‘Are they stamped?’
‘I ‘m afraid not, Eccelenza. The Cavallochio that defended my father couldn’t write himself, and it was one Leonardo Capprini——’
‘The sausage-maker,’ broke in the judge, with a smack of his lips.
‘The same, Eccelenza; you knew him, perhaps?’
‘Knew him well, and liked his hog’s puddings much.’ Justice seemed half ashamed at this confession of a weakness, and in a more stern tone, told him to ‘Go on.’
It was not very easy for honest Vincenzio to know at what part of his history he was to take up the thread; so he shuffled from foot to foot, and sighed despondingly.