"I confess it is wine for the gods," I said. "Is there much in your cellar."
"Store of it, excellency; I was not butler to His Eminence of Strigonia for ten years for nothing."
"His eminence is a fine judge of wines."
"Cospitto! And your excellency's forgiveness for swearing. He is the finest judge in the world. There is no brand he could not name, nay, tell you the year of vintage, were he blindfold and a drop but touched his palate. Corpo di Bacco! But he is a true prince of the Church."
"Ah! you are a sly dog, Messer Passaro," and I filled him his glass; "I warrant me you could tell many a tale of the cardinal. But come now, has not the Baglioni as fine a taste in wines, and a better one for a neat ankle?"
"Hush!" he said, looking around him as he put down his empty glass, "in your ear, excellency--the Count Carlo has big teeth and bites hard. Let your tongue be still when his name comes up in Perugia."
"Thanks, friend, but Count Carlo owes me no grudge, or else I should not be here."
"Your worship has come to join him then?"
"As you see, Messer Passaro," and I filled his glass again, "I am a soldier and love to serve a soldier. Besides things will be on foot soon, for what with the French at Passignano, war cannot be delayed long."
"True, and a light has been put to the torch too."