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And
the
Italian
,
Fortini
,
leaned
to
my
shoulder
and
whispered
:
"
One
who
desires
to
speak
.
"
"
One
who
must
wait
my
pleasure
,
"
I
answered
shortly
.
"
I
wait
no
man
's
pleasure
,
"
was
his
equally
short
reply
.
And
,
while
my
blood
boiled
,
I
remembered
the
priest
,
Martinelli
,
and
the
gray
old
man
at
Rome
.
The
thing
was
clear
.
It
was
deliberate
.
It
was
the
long
arm
.
Fortini
smiled
lazily
at
me
while
I
thus
paused
for
the
moment
to
debate
,
but
in
his
smile
was
the
essence
of
all
insolence
.
This
,
of
all
times
,
was
the
time
I
should
have
been
cool
.
But
the
old
red
anger
began
to
kindle
in
me
.
This
was
the
work
of
the
priest
.
This
was
the
Fortini
,
poverished
of
all
save
lineage
,
reckoned
the
best
sword
come
up
out
of
Italy
in
half
a
score
of
years
.
To-night
it
was
Fortini
.
If
he
failed
the
gray
old
man
's
command
to-morrow
it
would
be
another
sword
,
the
next
day
another
.
And
,
perchance
still
failing
,
then
might
I
expect
the
common
bravo
's
steel
in
my
back
or
the
common
poisoner
's
philter
in
my
wine
,
my
meat
,
or
bread
.
"
I
am
busy
,
"
I
said
.
"
Begone
.
"
"
My
business
with
you
presses
,
"
was
his
reply
.
Insensibly
our
voices
had
slightly
risen
,
so
that
Philippa
heard
.
