My thoughts still ran in that channel as we rode out of Pesaro, for I misliked the way in which those knaves disposed themselves about us.  In front went Madonna Paola; and immediately behind her, so that their horses’ heads were on a level with her saddle-bow, one on each side, went two of those ruffians.  The third, whom I had heard them call Stefano, and who was the one who had made her the offer of their services, ambled at my side, a few paces in the rear, and sought to draw me into conversation, haply by way of throwing me off my guard.

Mistrust is a fine thing at times.  “Forewarned is forearmed,” says the proverb, and of all forewarnings there is none we are more likely to heed than our own mistrust; for whereas we may leave unheeded the warnings of a friend, we seldom leave unheeded the warnings of our spirit.

And so, while my amiable and garrulous Ser Stefano engaged me in pleasant conversation—­addressing me ever as Messer the Fool, since he knew me not by name—­I wrapped my cloak about me, and under cover of it kept my fingers on the hilt of my stout Pistoja dagger, ready to draw and use it at the first sign of mischief.  For that sign I was all eyes, and had I been Argus himself I could have kept no better watch.  Meanwhile I plied my tongue and maintained as merry a conversation with Ser Stefano as you could wish to hear, for he seemed a ready-witted knave of a most humorous turn of fancy—­God rest his rascally soul!  And so it came to pass that I did by him the very thing he sought to do by me; I lulled him into a careless confidence.

At last the sign I had been waiting for was given.  I saw it as plainly as if it had been meant for me; I believe I saw it before the man for whom it was intended, and but for my fears concerning Madonna Paola, I could have laughed outright at their clumsy assurance.  The man who rode on Madonna’s right turned in his saddle and put up his hand as if to beckon Stefano.  I was regaling him with one of the choicest of Messer Sacchetti’s paradoxes, gurgling, myself, at the humour of the thing I told.  I paid no heed to the sign.  I continued to expound my quip, as though we had the night before us in which to make its elusive humour clear.  But out of the tail of my eye I watched my good friend Stefano, and I saw his right hand steal round to the region of his back where I knew his dagger to be slung.  Yet was I patient.  There should be no blundering through an excessive precipitancy.  I talked on until I saw that my suspicions were amply realised.  I caught the cold gleam of steel in the hand that he brought back as stealthily as he had carried it to his poniard.  Sant’ Iddio!  What a coward he was for all his bulk, to go so slyly about the business of stabbing a poor, helpless, defenceless Fool.

“But Sacchetti makes his point clear,” I babbled on, most blandly; “almost as clear, as comprehensive and as penetrating as should be to you the point of this.”  And with a swift movement I swung half-round in my saddle, and sank my dagger to the hilt in his side even as he was in the act of raising his.