eyebrow, and it was true enough that the kennels were running red.
"Whose blood is that on your legs, my lad?" Passavente stayed his charger.
Grifone shrugged. "Misericordia! Who knows? My father's perhaps; my mother's more certainly, since my father ran away. My mother would have run too, but she had no time. Eh, take me up, Signore! I cannot swim."
Amilcare swung him up by the hand, so saved his life. Next day Grifone saved his.
They burnt a monastery in the plain and ransacked a chestful of correspondence.
"Death of Christ!" swore Passavente, "I can't read this Latin. Go and fetch me a monk and a rope."
The monk, a plausible rogue, began to read: little Grifone stood by the table. At a certain point he broke into the recital with an emphatic word: "Liar!"
"What the deuce does this mean?" fumed Amilcare in a rage.
"The monk is deceiving your Lordship," said Grifone; "the sense is the opposite of what he reports."
It seemed that the boy knew Latin—at any rate enough to hang a few monks. Hanged the poor devils were, and after that very much was made of Grifone. Amilcare took him through all his campaigns, had him well taught, gave confidence for confidence, and found by the time he was at Nona, making his "Gran Tradimento" of Farnese, that he could not get on without him. The accepted remedy for such a state of the case was
