But just at that time Tito felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and no amount of previous resolution could prevent the very unpleasant sensation with which that sudden touch jarred him. His face, as he turned it round, betrayed the inward shock; but the owner of the hand that seemed to have such evil magic in it broke into a light laugh. He was a young man about Tito’s own age, with keen features, small close-clipped head, and close-shaven lip and chin, giving the idea of a mind as little encumbered as possible with material that was not nervous. The keen eyes were bright with hope and friendliness, as so many other young eyes have been that have afterwards closed on the world in bitterness and disappointment; for at that time there were none but pleasant predictions about Niccolò Macchiavelli, as a young man of promise, who was expected to mend the broken fortunes of his ancient family.
“Why, Melema, what evil dream did you have last night, that you took my light grasp for that of a sbirro or something worse?”
“Ah, Messer Niccolò!” said Tito, recovering himself immediately; “it must have been an extra amount of dullness in my veins this morning that shuddered at the approach of your wit. But the fact is, I have had a bad night.”
“That is unlucky, because you will be expected to shine without any obstructing fog today in the Rucellai Gardens. I take it for granted you are to be there.”
“Messer Bernardo did me the honour to invite me,” said Tito; “but I shall be engaged elsewhere.”
“Ah! I remember, you are in love,” said Macchiavelli, with a shrug, “else you would never have such inconvenient engagements. Why, we are to eat a peacock and ortolans under the loggia among Bernardo Rucellai’s rare trees; there are to be the choicest spirits in Florence and the choicest wines. Only, as Piero de’ Medici is to be there, the choice spirits may