"Tell your master," said Zorzi, "that I have hurt my foot and am walking on crutches, so that I cannot come this evening, but that I thank him for his invitation, and send greeting to him and to the other guests."
The man repeated some of the words in a tone hardly audible, evidently committing the message to memory.
"Signor Zorzi—hurt his foot—crutches—thanks—greeting," he mumbled. "Yes, sir," he added in his ordinary voice, "I will say all that. Your servant, sir."
With another awkward bow, he turned away to the right and walked very quickly along the footway. He had left his boat at the entrance to the canal, not knowing exactly where the glass-house was. Zorzi looked after him a moment, then turned himself on his sound foot and set his crutches before him to go in. Pasquale was there, and must have heard what had passed. He shut the door and followed Zorzi back a little way.
"It is no concern of mine," he said roughly. "You may amuse yourself as you please, for you are young, and your host may be the Archangel Michael himself, or the holy Saint Mark, and the house to which you are bidden may be a paradise full of other angels! But I would as soon sit down before the grating and look at the hooded brother, while the executioner slipped the noose over my head to strangle me, as to go to any place on a bidding delivered by a fellow with such a jail-bird's head. It is as round as a bullet and as yellow as cheese. He has eyes like a turtle's and teeth like those of a young shark."
"I am quite of your opinion," said Zorzi, halting at the entrance to the garden.
"Then why did you not kick him into the canal?" inquired the porter, with admirable logic.
"Do I look as if I could kick anything?" asked Zorzi, laughing and glancing at his lame foot.
"And where should I have been?" inquired Pasquale indignantly. "Asleep, perhaps? If you had said 'kick,' I would have kicked. Perhaps I am a statue!"
Zorzi pointed out that it was not usual to answer invitations in that way, even when declining them.