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"
Which
was
?
"
I
prompted
,
unable
for
the
life
of
me
to
guess
what
I
could
have
said
.
"
Which
was
the
heart
of
one
,
a
black
buzzard
,
you
said
,
by
name
Martinelli
--
whoever
he
may
be
--
for
the
heart
of
Martinelli
smoking
on
a
gold
platter
.
The
platter
must
be
gold
,
you
said
;
and
you
said
I
must
call
you
by
singing
,
'
Sing
cucu
,
sing
cucu
,
sing
cucu
.
'
Whereat
you
began
to
teach
me
how
to
sing
,
'
Sing
cucu
,
sing
cucu
,
sing
cucu
.
"'
And
when
Pons
had
said
the
name
,
I
knew
it
at
once
for
the
priest
,
Martinelli
,
who
had
been
knocking
his
heels
two
mortal
hours
in
the
room
without
.
When
Martinelli
was
permitted
to
enter
and
as
he
saluted
me
by
title
and
name
,
I
knew
at
once
my
name
and
all
of
it
.
I
was
Count
Guillaume
de
Sainte-Maure
.
(
You
see
,
only
could
I
know
then
,
and
remember
afterward
,
what
was
in
my
conscious
mind
.
)
The
priest
was
Italian
,
dark
and
small
,
lean
as
with
fasting
or
with
a
wasting
hunger
not
of
this
world
,
and
his
hands
were
as
small
and
slender
as
a
woman
's
.
But
his
eyes
!
They
were
cunning
and
trustless
,
narrow-slitted
and
heavy-lidded
,
at
one
and
the
same
time
as
sharp
as
a
ferret
's
and
as
indolent
as
a
basking
lizard
's
.
"
There
has
been
much
delay
,
Count
de
Sainte-Maure
,
"
he
began
promptly
,
when
Pons
had
left
the
room
at
a
glance
from
me
.
"
He
whom
I
serve
grows
impatient
.
"
"
Change
your
tune
,
priest
,
"
I
broke
in
angrily
.
"
Remember
,
you
are
not
now
in
Rome
.
"
"
My
august
master
--
"
he
began
.
"
Rules
augustly
in
Rome
,
mayhap
,
"
I
again
interrupted
.
"
This
is
France
.
"
