“What can this mean?” thought our mendicant. “Is yon eavesdropper one of death’s unlicensed ministers? Has he received the retaining fee of some impatient heir, who pants to possess the wealth of the unlucky knave who comes strolling along yonder, so careless and unconscious? Be not so confident, honest friend! I’m at your elbow.”
He retired further into the shade, and silently and slowly drew near the lurker, who stirred not from his place. The stranger had already passed them by, when the concealed villain sprang suddenly upon him, raised his right hand in which a poniard was gleaming, and before he could give the blow, was felled to the earth by the arm of the mendicant.
The stranger turned hastily towards them; the bravo started up and fled; the beggar smiled.
“How now?” cried the stranger; “what does all this mean?”
“Oh, ’tis a mere jest, signor, which has only preserved your life.”
“What? my life? How so?”
“The honest gentleman who has just taken to his heels stole behind you with true cat-like caution, and had already raised his dagger, when I saw him. You owe your life to me, and the service is richly worth one little piece of money! Give me some alms, signor, for on my soul I am hungry, thirsty, cold.”
“Hence, scurvy companion! I know you and your tricks too well. This is all a concerted scheme between you, a design upon my purse, an attempt to procure both money and thanks, and under the lame pretence of having saved me from an assassin. Go, fellow, go! practise these dainty devices on the Doge’s credulity if you will; but with Buonarotti you stand no chance, believe me.”
The wretched starving beggar stood like one petrified, and gazed on the taunting stranger.
“No, as I have a soul to save, signor, ’tis no lie I tell you!—’tis the plain truth; have compassion, or I die this night of hunger.”