"A goodly account that ought vastly to interest the Grand Penitentiary—were it—with proper decorum—whispered in his ear. It would make him forget—for the time at least—the dirty Roman gossip. Deem you not, good Il Gobbo?"
"I am not versed in such matters, my lord," replied the bravo, ill at ease. "Perhaps your lordship will now tell me why this fondness for my society?"
"To confess truth, good Il Gobbo, I did not join you merely to meditate upon the pleasant things of life. Rather to be inspired to some extraordinary adventure such as my hungry soul yearns for. As for the nature thereof, I shall leave that to the notoriously wicked fertility of your imagination."
The lurid tone of the speaker startled the bravo.
"My lord, you would not lay hands on the Lord's anointed?"
Il Gobbo met a glance that made the blood freeze in his veins.
"Is it the thing you call your conscience that ails you, or some sudden indigestion? Or is the bribe not large enough?"
The bravo doggedly shook his head.
"Courage lieth not always in bulk," he growled. "May my soul burn to a crisp in the everlasting flames if I draw steel against the Lord's anointed."
"Silence, fool! What you do in my service shall not burden your soul! Have you forgotten our compact?"