THE FOOL ERRANT - World eBook Library - World Public Library

him good-day. Supported by my hoe, chin on hands, I watched him, tolerably sure that he would never mark me down. I was
as brown as the earth in which I delved, scarce distinguishable from it. I had on my head an old felt hat of no shape at all; I had
a cotton shirt open to the navel, and a pair of blue cotton drawers which failed me at the knees. I was bleached and tanned
again, stained and polished by the constant rub of weather and hard work—a perfect contrast to my last appearance before
him. Then it had been my heart that was rent, not my garments; then my spirit was fretted and seamed, not my skin. Then I had
had a fine cloth coat and lace ruffles; but my soul was soiled and my honour in tatters. The hand which shot him down had been
covered in a scented glove; but pride had flaunted it upon me, naked and unashamed. The contrast assured me, while it gave
me confidence enough to watch my wily enemy.
He saw me, however—he saw me and reined up his horse. He beckoned me towards him in the way of free command which a
mounted man assumes with peasants. As it would have been more singular to stand than to obey, I went slowly over the
furrows and saluted him, responding to his bluff "Buon di" with a "Servo suo." The shadow of my hat was now my only hope;
but I felt his sharp eyes burn their way through that, and now I am sure that he recognised me at the first moment. He
pretended, however, that he had not, saving up, as I suppose, his acclamations to be the climax of the little drama he had
schemed. Addressing me as his "honest lad," he asked his way to Fojano, with particulars of fords, bridle-tracks and such like.
This was a game of which I, at least, was soon weary; I never could play pretences. I said, "I have told you what you want to
know, Fra Palamone. It is three good leagues to Fojano. I hope you are sufficiently recovered of your wound to attempt it." At
the same time I pushed up the brim of my hat, and looked him in the face.
He maintained his silly comedy for a little while longer, the old knave, staring at me as if I had been a ghost, muttering names, as
if to recall mine. Then with a glad shout of, "It is, it is my Francis of old!" he threw up his arms to Heaven and broke into
doggerel—
"'Si, benedetta tu,
O Maria, Madre di Gesu,
Regina Coeli intemerata,
Atque hominum Advocata!
"O what perils by land and sea," he continued, "what racking of entrails! What contumely, what anguish of hunger and thirst,
have I not undergone for this—for this—for this! Now I can say, Domine, nunc dimittis, with a full heart. Now, indeed, is the
crown of lilies set upon the life-work of wayworn, sad-browed Palamone!"
Sad-browed Palamone! He threw a leg over his horse's ears, and slid to the ground with a thud which made earth shake. He
stretched out his arms to beckon me home; and when I would not budge, he scrambled through the briery hedge and took me,
whether I would or no, into his strenuous embrace. He wept over me as a long-lost child of his, slobbered me, patted my head,
back, breast. He held me at arm's-length to look at me better, hugged me again as if at last he was sure. "This is verily and
indeed," he cried, "my friend and companion for many years, ardently loved, ardently served, lost for a season, searched for
with blood- shedding, and found with tears of thankfulness. O dearest brother, let us kneel down and thank the Giver of all
good, the only True Fount, for this last and most signal instance of His provident bounty!" He did kneel, and had the hardihood
to drag me with him; I believe he would have prayed over me like a bishop at a confirmation—but this blasphemous farce was
too much for me. I jumped up and away in a rage.
"Fra Palamone," I said, "I don't know whither this pretence of yours is designed to lead you, but I know well whither it will lead
myself— namely, with this hoe of mine, to complete the work which I bungled in Florence. And to the achievement of that I
shall instantly proceed, unless you get up from your polluted knees and tell me your real and present business with me here."
He got up at once—one of those lightning alterations of his from the discursive to the precise.
"Va bene," says he, "you shall be satisfied in a moment." He fumbled for his pocket-book, and from that selected three papers,
which he handed to me in silence and in due order. They were:
1. A power of attorney to Fra Palamone by name from Sir John Macartney, his Britannic Majesty's representative at the Grand
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