Either I or
de Cressi must pack for our last journey, and if we meet face to face
to-morrow, how know I that it will be de Cressi? Better far that we
should not meet."
"Lord, lord, you cannot fly! He is King Edward's champion, so proclaimed
before all whose names are written in the Golden Book of Venice. He
would cry your shame in every Court, and so would they. There's not a
knight in Europe but would spit upon you as a dastard, or a common wench
but would turn you her back! You cannot fly!"
"Nay, fool, but he can die--and before to-morrow. What makes your brain
so dull, Nicholas? It is not its wont."
"Ah, I see--not flight, murder. I had forgotten; it is not a usual sauce
to a banquet of honour even in Italy, and therefore, perhaps, the safer
to serve. But how is it to be done? Poison? He is in Carleon's
house; Carleon has faithful servants. Though perhaps a basket of rare
fruits--but then he might not eat them; those Englishmen live mostly on
half-raw meat. The signora would probably eat them, and the others."
"Nay, no more of your drugs; your skill in them is too well known. Come,
these men have been watched since they set foot in Venice. Have they
offended none besides myself and the Swiss?"
A look of intelligence crept into the eyes of Nicholas.
"Now that you mention it, lord, they have. There is a certain boatman
and bravo called Giuseppe.
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