"Ha!" ejaculated the scamp-student, brightening. "Your gift would match the piece I already have and which—dolt that I was!—I overlooked to include in my chain of reasoning." And thrusting his hand into his ragged doublet, after some search he extracted a diminutive disk upon which he gazed not without ardor. "Thus are we forced to start the chain of reasoning anew," he remarked, "with Horace and this bit of metal on one side of the scales and Nanette on the other. Now unless the devil sits on the beam with Nanette—which he's like to do—the book and the bit of dross will outweigh her and we arrive at the certitude that life, qualified as to duration, may be happily endured."
"What argument does the dross carry, knave?" demanded the fool, looking down at the hound that crouched at his feet.
"With it may be purchased that which warms the pinched stomach. With it may be bought an elixir, so strong and magical, it may breed defiance even of Nanette. Sir Fool, I have concluded to accept life and the small silver piece."
"Well and good," commented the jester. "But there are conditions attached to my clemency."
"Conditions!" retorted the vagabond. "What are conditions to a philosopher, once he has reached a logical assurance?"
"First, you must find me a horse. Your Nanette, as I take it, is a gipsy and in the camp, are, surely, horses."
"But why should you want a horse? 'Tis not far to the castle?" said the puzzled scholar.
"No; but 'tis far away from it. Next, tell me where you got that small piece of silver, like the one I have promised you?"
"From Nanette."
"What for?"