“How many minstrels are there among us?” he said, when there had been a general rallying round the table. “Melema, I think you are the chief: Matteo will give you the lute.”
“Ah, yes!” said Giannozzo Pucci, “lead the last chorus from Poliziano’s Orfeo , that you have found such an excellent measure for, and we will all fall in:—
“ ‘Ciascum segua, o Bacco, te: Bacco, Bacco, evoe, evoe!’ ”
The servant put the lute into Tito’s hands, and then said something in an undertone to his master. A little subdued questioning and answering went on between them, while Tito touched the lute in a preluding way to the strain of the chorus, and there was a confusion of speech and musical humming all round the table. Bernardo Rucellai had said, “Wait a moment, Melema;” but the words had been unheard by Tito, who was leaning towards Pucci, and singing low to him the phrases of the Maenad-chorus. He noticed nothing until the buzz round the table suddenly ceased, and the notes of his own voice, with its soft low-toned triumph, “ Evoe, evoe! ” fell in startling isolation.
It was a strange moment. Baldassarre had moved round the table till he was opposite Tito, and as the hum ceased there might be seen for an instant Baldassarre’s fierce dark eyes bent on Tito’s bright smiling unconsciousness, while the low notes of triumph dropped from his lips into the silence.
Tito looked up with a slight start, and his lips turned pale, but he seemed hardly more moved than Giannozzo Pucci, who had looked up at the same moment—or even than several others round the table; for that sallow deep-lined face with the hatred in its eyes seemed a terrible