Fra Balthasar cleared his throat.
"The Lady Duessa, sire, is a rose of joy."
"Monk!"
"My lord, it was your dictum that you are ever ingenuous. I echo you."
"Need I confess to you on such a subject?"
"Nay, sire, you have the inconsistency of a poet."
"How so?"
"Well, well, one can sniff rotten apples without opening the door of the cupboard."
The younger man jerked away, and went striding betwixt the array of frescoes with something of the wild vigour of a blind Polyphemus. Balthasar, subtle sophist, watched him from the angle of his eye with the sardonic superiority of one well versed in the contradictions of the world. He had scribbled a shrewd sketch of the passions stirring in his patron's heart. Had he not heard from the man's own lips of the white-faced elf of the pine woods and her vengeance? And the Lady Duessa! Fra Balthasar was as wise in the gossip of Gilderoy as any woman.
"Sire," he said, as the aristocrat turned in his stride, "I ask of you a bold favour."