A dry laugh was audible from one of the other men.
“You see,” said the speaker, “these gentlemen here put no great faith in your tale. Truly, it is easier to play the poet than the man of honor.”
“If you mean, signor, that out of cowardice Signor Filippo does not come, it is an abominable lie, which may Heaven put down to your account,” she said firmly, and looked at each of the men in turn.
“You are warm, little one,” mocked the man. “Are you, perhaps, the very good friend of the gentleman, the lawyer, heh?”
“No, the Madonna is witness!” said she, in her richest voice. The men whispered together, and she heard one of them say: “The Aerie,[2] too, is in Tuscany. You do not really believe in this trick, do you?” The third interrupted him: “He lies no more in Treppi than—”
“Come and see for yourself,” Fenice broke into their whispering. “But you shall not carry weapons, if I am to guide you.”
“Little fool,” said the first speaker. “Think you that we will risk our lives for such a trim little creature as you are?”
“No, but for him; that I know.”
“Have you any other special conditions to impose, Fenice Cattaneo?”
“Yes, that a surgeon accompanies us. Is there one among you, Signori?”