XLV

“It is true,” said Macchiavelli. “You forget the danger of the precedent, Francesco. The next mad beggar man may accuse you of stealing his verses, or me, God help me! of stealing his coppers. Ah!” he went on, turning towards the door, “Dolfo Spini has carried his red feather out of the Piazza. That captain of swaggerers would like the Republic to lose Pisa just for the chance of seeing the people tear the frock off the Frate’s back. With your pardon, Francesco⁠—I know he is a friend of yours⁠—there are few things I should like better than to see him play the part of Capo d’Oca, who went out to the tournament blowing his trumpets and returned with them in a bag.”