"She chooses not to leave her bower even to look on you, my Lord Pandulph. I warrant you, she has not slept all night, listening to your infernal din."
A renewed outburst of mirth was the response.
"Then you will permit us to betake ourselves forthwith to her gilded chamber to implore pardon on our knees for disturbing her rest."
"Well spoken—by the boot of St. Benedict!" roared Guido of Vanossa.
"You may measure my foot and satisfy yourself that I am able to wear it," shouted the Lord of Civitella. "On our knees we will crawl to the Sanctuary of our Goddess,—on our knees!"
"But before we start on our pilgrimage, we will drain a draught long as the bell-rope of the Capitol," bellowed the Lord of Bracciano.
"Fill up the tankards!" exclaimed the Lord of Spoleto. "My goblet is as empty as an honest man's purse,—and one of my eyes is sober yet."
"Do not take it to heart!" spoke Guido of Vanossa, whose eyes were full of tears and wine. "You will not die in the jolly fellow's faith!" And with unsteady voice he began to sing a stanza in dog-Latin:
"Dum Vinum potamus
Fratelli cantiamo
A Bacco sia Onore!
Te Deum laudamus!"
"Would your grace had a better voice, you have a good will!" stammered the lord of Sinigaglia. "'Tis ample time to repent when you can do no better. Besides—if you are damned, it is in rare good company!"