He held out one of the cakes to Beppo, who dashed it furiously to the ground.
“Where are my spices?” he shrieked. “You meant to steal them?” He dashed at the lad and seized him as if to search for the spices. Giovanni shook in his grasp like a rat in the jaws of a terrier, but he did not cringe.
“I sent that packet of spice to Master Tomaso an hour ago,” he gasped defiantly, “asking him if it was wholesome to use in the kitchen—and here he is now.”
At sight of the old physician standing calm as a judge in the doorway, Beppo bolted through the other door, seized a horse that stood in the courtyard and was gone before the astonished servants got their breath.
“What is all this?” inquired Tomaso. “I came to warn that man that the packet of spice which you sent is poison. Where did you get it?”
“The cook bought it of a peddler and gave it to Vanni,” answered Mary, scared but truthful. “You all heard him say that he did,” she added to the bystanders. “He told Vanni to use it in these cakes, but Vanni used the spice you gave us.”
“I have seen that peddler before,” gasped Giovanni. “He tried to bribe me to take the Queen a letter and a packet, and I would not. I put some of the spice in honey, and the flies that ate of it died. Then I sent it to you.”
“It was a subtle device,” said Tomaso slowly. “The spice would disguise the flavor. Every one knew that Giovanni was to make the cakes, and that the Queen will not come to the banquet. When it is served do you send each sauce to me for testing. We will have no poison in the King’s dish.”
The plot, as Tomaso guessed, had not been born of the jealousy of a cook, but of subtler brains beyond the seas. The Queen might well have been held responsible if the poison had worked. But when she heard of it she wept.
“I have not been loyal,” she flung out, in tearful defiance, “but I would not have done that—never that!”