"Unless I can pay you more," said the man, instantly taking a hopeful hint.
"Do you wear the belt of Phranza, that you think you can pay so much?" replied one of the ruffians, feeling about the person of the helpless man.
"What I have I give—a hundred ducats."
"A hundred! Are you love-crossed that you value life so little? You'll skin well, my gentle lambkin; and as you are half tanned already, we will sell your hide to the buskin maker for almost that sum; and your fat (feeling his ribs) will grease a hundred galley masts. A thousand ducats is your value, you Albanian imp!"
"I do not possess so much," said the victim.
"But your sister does," said the ruffian; and not noting the surprised look of the man, continued: "We have arranged for that. Your life is worth to us just one thousand ducats of gold. Sign this!" producing a bit of paper on which was something written.
"I cannot read it in this light. You read it. I may trust such honest fellows as you are."
The man read—"To my sister, the Albanian, at the house of Phranza. I am in danger from which I can escape only if you will give the bearer one thousand ducats. Speak not to any one of it, or my life is forfeit. That you may know this is genuine the bearer will show you my ring and a clip of my hair."
"Give me your ring; and, comrade, warm the wax to seal the letter," said Giovan.
"But I am not the man you seek," said the victim.