had remained as Spini’s constant companion, together with Francesco Cei, who was then in rather careless hiding in Florence, expecting to have his banishment revoked when the Frate’s fall had been accomplished.
The tapers had burnt themselves into low shapeless masses, and holes in the shutters were just marked by a sombre outward light, when Spini, who had started from his seat and walked up and down with an angry flush on his face at some talk that had been going forward with those two unmilitary companions, burst out—
“The devil spit him! he shall pay for it, though. Ha, ha! the claws shall be down on him when he little thinks of them.
So he was to be the great man after all! He’s been pretending to chuck everything towards my cap, as if I were a blind beggar man, and all the while he’s been winking and filling his own scarsella. I should like to hang skins about him and set my hounds on him! And he’s got that fine ruby of mine, I was fool enough to give him yesterday. Malediction!
And he was laughing at me in his sleeve two years ago, and spoiling the best plan that ever was laid. I was a fool for trusting myself with a rascal who had long-twisted contrivances that nobody could see to the end of but himself.”
“A Greek, too, who dropped into Florence with gems packed about him,” said Francesco Cei, who had a slight smile of amusement on his face at Spini’s fuming. “You did not choose your confidant very wisely, my Dolfo.”
“He’s a cursed deal cleverer than you, Francesco, and handsomer too,” said Spini, turning on his associate with a general desire to worry anything that presented itself.
“I humbly conceive,” said Ser Ceccone, “that Messer Francesco’s poetic genius will outweigh—”