been slowly strangled in him by the successive falsities of his life.
Our lives make a moral tradition for our individual selves, as the life of mankind at large makes a moral tradition for the race; and to have once acted greatly seems a reason why we should always be noble. But Tito was feeling the effect of an opposite tradition; he had won no memories of self-conquest and perfect faithfulness from which he could have a sense of falling.
The triple colloquy went on with growing spirit till it was interrupted by a call from the table. Probably the movement came from the listeners in the party, who were afraid lest the talkers should tire themselves. At all events it was agreed that there had been enough of gravity, and Rucellai had just ordered new flasks of Montepulciano.
"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:—
Ciascun segua, o Bacco, te:
Bacco, Bacco, evoè, evoè!"
The servant put the lute into Tito's hands, and then said something in an under-tone to his master.
