'And what sort of person is his worship, the Governor?' asked Cucurullo, anxious for information, and lowering his voice.
The sergeant was a jolly, red-faced, merry-eyed man from the March of Ancona, and he laughed before he answered.
'We used to call him Pontius Pilate, because he does not know what truth is,' he said, 'but we gave that up because he never washes his hands!'
Cucurullo smiled at the rough jest, but he looked curiously at the speaker.
'I see that you are familiar with the Scriptures, sir,' observed the hunchback.
'I come by the knowledge honestly,' answered the soldier. 'I did not steal it! My father, bless his soul, was killed in battle, and so my mother tried to make a priest of me. Eh? You see me as I am! This is the kind of priest my mother made! Neither more nor less than a poor sergeant of halberdiers. But a little of the Latin stuck to me, for indeed it is sticky stuff enough, and the priests laid it on with a stick!'
The men roared with delight at their superior's elegant wit, and Cucurullo laughed a little too, more out of politeness than because he was amused.
'You may yet die a saint, sir,' he said with a grave smile when the general mirth had subsided. 'Many of the saints were soldiers, you know. There was the blessed Saint Eustace, and there was Saint Martin, and Saint Sebastian, and Saint George——'
'But there never was a Saint Hector, and that is my name, at your service.'
At this retort the men again showed their delight, laughing in chorus.