in the back room and laughs and calls them fools!”
“Give me a cup of wine, Giovanni.”
“The red?”
“No. The Orvieto. Red wine in the middle of a hot day like this would boil a man’s brains.”
He picked up the wine cup which Giovanni filled and was about to empty it when he remembered himself, felt in the small purse attached to his belt, and then replaced the wine on the counter.
“I have no money with me,” he said. “I cannot take the wine.”
“Mother of Heaven!” exclaimed Giovanni. “Take the wine! Take the shop along with it, if you wish! Do you think I am such a fool that I cannot trust you and my master, Signore Falcone?”
“I have left his house,” said Tizzo, lifting his head suddenly. “And you may as well know that I’m not returning to it. The noble Messer Luigi now has nothing to do with my comings and goings—or the state of my purse!”
He flushed a little as he said this, and saw his words strike a silence through the room. Some of the men began to leer with a wide, open-mouthed joy. Others seemed turned to stone with astonishment. But on the whole it was plain that they were pleased. Even Giovanni grinned suddenly but tried to cover his smile by thrusting out the cup of wine.
“Here! Take this!” he said. “You have been a good patron. This is a small gift but it comes from my heart.”
“Thank you, Giovanni,” said Tizzo. “But charity would poison that wine for me. Go tell the Englishman that I have come to try for the place.”
“You?” cried Giovanni. “To become a servant?”
“I’ve been a master,” said Tizzo, “and therefore I ought to make a good servant. Tell the Englishman that I am here.”
“There is no use in that,” said Giovanni. “The truth is that he rails at lads with red hair. You know that Marco, the son of the charcoal burner? He threw a stool at the head of Marco and drove him out of the room; and he began a tremendous cursing when he saw that fine fellow, Guido, simply because his hair was red, also.”
“Is the Englishman this way?” asked Tizzo. “I’ll go in and announce myself!”
Before he could be stopped, he had stepped straight back into the rear room which was the kitchen, and by far the largest chamber in the tavern. At the fire, the cook was turning a spit loaded with small birds and larding them anxiously. A steam of cookery mingled with smoke through the rafters of the room; and at a table near the window sat the Englishman.
Tizzo, looking at him, felt as though he had crossed swords with a master in the mere exchange of glances. He saw a tall man, dressed gaily enough to make a court figure. His short jacket was so belted around the waist that the skirts of the blue stuff flared out; his hose was plum colored, his shirtsleeves—those of the jacket stopped at the elbow—were red, and his jacket was laced with yellow. But this young and violent clashing of colors was of no importance. What mattered were the powerful shoulders, the deep chest, and the iron-gray hair of the stranger. In spite of the gray he could not have been much past forty; his look was half cruel, half carelessly wild. Just now he was pointing with the half consumed leg of a roast chicken toward the spit and warning the cook not to let the tidbits come too close to the flame. He broke off these orders to glance at Tizzo.
“Sir,” said Tizzo, “are you Henry, baron of Melrose?”
“I am,” answered the baron. “And who are you, my friend?”
“You have sent out word,” said Tizzo, “that you want to find in this village a servant twenty-two years old and able to use a sword. I have come to ask for the place.”
“You?” murmured the baron, surveying the fine clothes of Tizzo with a quick glance.
“I have come to ask for the place,” said Tizzo.
“Well, you have asked,” said the baron.
He began to eat the roast chicken again as though he had finished the interview.
“And what is my answer?” asked Tizzo.
“Redheads are all fools,” said the baron. “In a time of trouble they run the wrong way. They have their brains in their feet. Get out!”
Tizzo began to laugh. He was helpless to keep back the musical flowing of his mirth, and yet he was far from being amused. The Englishman stared at him.
“I came to serve you for pay,” said Tizzo. “But I’ll remain to slice off your ears for no reward at all. Just for the pleasure, my lord.”
My lord, still staring, pushed back the bench on which he was sitting and started up. He caught a three-legged stool in a powerful hand.
“Get out!” shouted the baron. “Get out or I’ll brain you—if there are any brains in a redheaded fool.”
The sword of Tizzo came out of its sheath. It made a sound like the spitting of a cat.
“If you throw the stool,” he said, “I’ll cut your throat as well as your ears.”
And he began to laugh once more. The sound of this laughter seemed to enchant the Englishman.
“Can it be?” he said. “Is this the truth?”
He cast the stool suddenly to one side and, leaning, drew his own sword from the belt and scabbard that lay nearby.
“My lords—my masters—” stammered the cook.
“Look, Tonio,” said Tizzo. “You have carved a good deal for other people. Why don’t you stand quietly and watch them carving for themselves?”
“And why not?” asked Tonio, blinking and nodding suddenly. He opened his mouth and swallowed not air but a delightful idea. “I suppose the blood of gentlemen will scrub off the floor as easily as the blood of chickens or red beef. So lay on and I’ll cheer you.”
“What is your name?” asked the baron.
“Tizzo.”
“They call you the Firebrand, do they? But what is your real name?”
“If you get any more answers from me, you’ll have to earn them,” said Tizzo. “Tonio, bolt the doors!”
The cook, his eyes gleaming, ran in haste to bar the doors leading to the guest room and also to the rear yard of the tavern. Then he climbed up and sat on a stool which he placed on a table. He clapped his hands together and called out: “Begin, masters! Begin, gentlemen! Begin, my lords! My God, what a happiness it is! I have sweated to entertain the gentry and now they sweat to entertain me!”
“It will end as soon as it begins,” said the Englishman, grinning suddenly at the joy of the cook. “But—I haven’t any real pleasure in drawing your blood, Tizzo. I have a pair of blunted swords; and I’d as soon beat you with the dull edge of one of them.”
“My lord,” said Tizzo, “I am not a miser. I’ll give my blood as freely as any tapster ever gave wine—if you are man
