And from the moment of our setting out there came upon me a curious peace, a happiness and a great sense of expectancy. No longer was I oppressed by the fear of proving unworthy of the life which I had chosen—as had been the case when that life had been monastic.
Galeotto was in high spirits to see me so blithe, and he surveyed with pride the figure that I made, vowing that I should prove a worthy son of my father ere all was done.
The first act of my new life was performed as we were passing through the village of Pojetta.
I called a halt before the doors of that mean hostelry, over which hung what no doubt would still be the same withered bunch of rosemary that had been there in autumn when last I went that way.
To the sloe-eyed, deep-bosomed girl who lounged against the door-post to see so fine a company ride by, I gave an order to fetch the taverner. He came with a slouch, a bent back, and humble, timid eyes—a very different attitude from that which he had last adopted towards me.
“Where is my mule, you rogue?” quoth I.
He looked at me askance. “Your mule, magnificent? said he.
“You have forgotten me, I think—forgotten the lad in rusty black who rode this way last autumn and whom you robbed.”
At the words be turned a sickly yellow, and fell to trembling and babbling protestations and excuses.
“Have done,” I broke in. “You would not buy the mule then. You shall buy it now, and pay for it with interest.”