"Gentinetta hath his sacraments on Tuesday, and his addresses to his folk have been full of pleasant warnings. It will be a good time with us."
"And when comes your turn?" cried Henry, who was much interested by this recital.
"There cometh at the end of the barley harvest, by the grace of God, a fat time of sickness, when many dues are paid; and when the addresses from the altar of this Church of Sant Philip are worth the hearing."
The old priest moved the glass of good wine at his elbow, the fellow of the Montepulciano he had set at ours.
"A bad town this Spellino," he muttered; "but I, Father Philip, thank the saints—and Gentinetta, he thanks his mother, for the wit which makes it possible for poor servants of God to live."
The old servant thrust her head within.
"Tonino Scala is very sick," she said, "and calleth for thee!"
The priest nodded, rose from his seat, and took down a thick leather-bound book.
"Lire thirty-six," he said—"it is well. It begins to be my time. This week Gentinetta and his younglings shall have chicken-broth."
So with heartiest goodwill we bade our kind Father Philip adieu, and fared forth upon our way.