And he lowered his weapon and stood panting, leaning on the hilt of his sword.
“I would give,” said Tizzo, “ten years of my life to learn that stroke.”
The baron tossed his own blade away. It fell with a crash on the table. And now he held out his right hand.
“That stroke,” said he, “is worth ten years of any life—but I was almost a dead man half a dozen times before I had a chance to use it! Give me your hand, Tizzo. You are not my servant, but if you choose to ride with me, you are my friend!”
Tizzo gripped the hand. The grasp that clutched his fingers was like hard iron.
“But,” said the baron, “you have only come here as a jest—you are the son of a gentleman. Not my service—not even my friendship is what you desire. It was only to measure my sword that you came, and by the Lord, you’ve done it. Except for the trick, I was a beaten man. And—listen to me—I have faced Turkish scimitars and the wild Hungarian sabers. I have met the stamping, prancing Spaniards who make fencing a philosophy, and the quick little Frenchmen, and cursing Teutons—but I’ve never faced your master. In what school did you learn? Sit down! Take wine with me! Cook, unbolt the door and give wine to everyone in the shop. Broach a keg. Set it out in the street. Let the village drink itself red and drunk. Do you hear?
“Put all your sausages and bread and cheese on the tables in the taproom. If there is any music to be found in this place, let it play. I shall pay for everything with a glad heart and a happy hand, because today I have found a man!”
The cook, unbarring the door, began to shout orders; uproar commenced to spread through the little town; presently all the air was sour with the smell of the good red wine of the last vintage. But young Tizzo sat at the table with the baron hearing nothing, tasting nothing, for all his soul was staring into the future as he heard the big man speak.
CHAPTER 3
They had not been long at the table when a strange little path of silence cut through the increasing uproar of the taproom, and tall Luigi Falcone came striding into the kitchen. When he saw his protégé, he threw up a hand in happy salutation.
“Now I have found you, Tizzo!” he said. “My dear son, come home with me. Yes, and bring your friend with you. I read your message, and I’ve been the unhappiest man in Italy.”
Tizzo introduced the two; they bowed to one another gravely. There was a great contrast between the immense dignity, the thoughtful and cultured face of Falcone, and the half handsome, half wild look of this man out of the savage North.
“It would be a happiness,” said the Englishman, “to go anywhere with my new friend, Tizzo. But this moment I am leaving the village. I must continue a journey. And we have been agreeing to make the trip together.”
Falcone sighed and shook his head.
“Tizzo cannot go,” he said. “All that his heart desires waits for him here—Tizzo, you cannot turn your back on it.”
Tizzo stood buried in silence which seemed to alarm Falcone, for he begged Melrose to excuse him and stepped aside for a moment with the younger man.
“It is always true,” said Falcone. “We never know our happiness until it is endangered. When I found that you had gone, the house was empty. I read your letter and thought I found your honest heart in it. Tizzo, you came to me as a servant; you became my protégé; now go back with me and be my son. I mean it. There are no blood relations who stand close to me. I have far more wealth than I have ever showed to you. It is not with money that I wish to tempt you, Tizzo. If I thought you could be bought, I would despise and disown you. But I have kept you too closely to your books. Even Greek should be a servant and not a master when a youth has reached a certain age. And now when you return—I have been painting this picture while I hunted for you—you will enter a new life. Yonder is Perugia. I have friends in that city who will welcome you. You shall have your journeys to Rome to see the great life there. You shall enter the world as a gentleman should do.”
Tizzo had started to break out into grateful speech, when the Englishman said, calmly but loudly, “My friends, I have heard what Messer Luigi has to say. It is my right to be heard also.”
“My lord,” said Falcone, “I have a right of many years over this young gentleman.”
“Messer Luigi,” said the Englishman, “I have a still greater right.”
“A greater right?” exclaimed Falcone.
“We have pledged our right hands together,” said the baron.
“A handshake—” began Falcone.
“In my country,” answered the Englishman, “it is as binding as a holy oath sworn on a fragment of the true cross. We have pledged ourselves to one another; and he owes me ten years of his life.”
“In the name of God,” said Falcone, “how could this be? What have you seen in such a complete stranger, Tizzo?”
“I have seen—” said Tizzo. He paused and added: “I have seen the way down a beautiful road—by the light of his sword.”
“But this means nothing,” said Falcone. “These are only words. Have you given a solemn promise?”
“I have given a solemn promise,” said Tizzo, glancing down at his right hand.
“I shall release you from it,” said the baron suddenly.
“Ha!” said Falcone. “That is a very gentle offer. Do you hear, Tizzo?”
“I release him from it,” said the Englishman, “but still I have something to offer him. Messer Luigi, it happens that I also am a man without a son who bears my name. Like you, I understand certain things about loneliness. We do not need to talk about this any more.
“But I should like to match what I have to offer against what you propose to give him.”
“Ah?” said Falcone. “Let us hear.”
“You offer him,” said the Englishman, “an old affection, wealth, an excellent name, a great house, many powerful friends. Am I right?”
“I offer him all of those things,” agreed the Italian.
“As for me,” said the baron, “the home of my fathers is a blackened heap of stones; my kin and my friends are dead at the hands of our enemies in my country; my wealth is the gold that I carry in this purse and the sword in my scabbard.”
“Well?” asked Falcone.
“In spite of that,” said the Englishman, “I have something to offer—to a redheaded man.”
Tizzo started a little and glanced sharply at the baron.
Melrose went on: “I offer you, Tizzo, danger, battle, suspicion, confusion, wild riding, uneasy nights—and a certain trick with the sword. I offer that. Is it enough?”
Falcone smiled. “Well said!” he answered. “You have a great heart, my lord, and you know something of the matters that make the blood of a young man warmer. But—what is your answer, Tizzo?”
Tizzo, turning slowly from the Englishman to Falcone, looked him fairly in the eye.
He said: “Signore, I shall keep you in my heart as a father. But this man is my master, and I must follow him!”
CHAPTER 4
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