'Shall we set out, Master?' asked Astro, wearied by the delay.
'Wait,' replied Leonardo; 'I must ask Marco about the oats. I would know how much truth is in the words of this scoundrel.'
And he returned to the house, Giovanni following him. Marco was in the studio, working as usual by rule and with mathematical accuracy, perspiring and panting as if he were rolling a weight uphill. His closely compressed lips, the disorder of his red hair, his red fat ineffectual fingers, seemed to say, 'Patience and perseverance will conquer all things.'
'Marco! Is it true you give out no money for the horses' oats?'
'Of a surety it is true.'
'How is that, friend?' exclaimed the painter, his look having already become timorous before the stern face of him who was steward of the household. 'I bade you, Marco, take heed to remember the oats. Have you forgotten?'
'No, I have not forgotten; but there is no money.'
'I guessed as much. There is always this lack of money. None the less, Marco, I ask you, can horses live without oats?'
Marco threw his brush away angrily. And Giovanni noticed how the master and the scholar seemed to have changed places.
'Hearken, Master!' said Marco. 'You bade me take charge of the housekeeping, and not trouble you. Why do you yourself re-open the matter?'