The steward scrutinized the bride and her maidens, pulled the strings which moved the humpbacked jester, fingered the costumes, and then with a curt nod bade them go on.  “But mind you, Master Stephen,” he said, shaking a long finger at the fool, “you are to be responsible for these fellows and keep them in sight from now until the time of the feast.  If aught goes amiss you shall be whipt.”

The jester giggled, shook his bells, and began to climb a long flight of stairs in a tower opening on the courtyard, beckoning the two youths to follow him.  Up and up they climbed, until at last the fool turned and motioned them to halt.

“Come within,” he said to Giovanni.  “Let your servant await you with your baggage on the landing here.  He will tell us if any one approaches.”

The room in which Giovanni found himself was a small wainscoted apartment in the top of the tower, furnished in a grotesque fashion well suited to the humped and twisted figure of its master.  The jester flung off his tall curved cap and seated himself on the corner of a table.  From a flask he poured out a cup of wine and offered it to his guest.  “It is not drugged,” he said with a laugh, “you need not fear.  No?  Ah, well, perhaps you are right.  I will drink it myself, though I should keep it for the night—­the nights are very long sometimes.”

He set down the cup and leaned forward, peering intently into Giovanni’s face.  “You gave me a start just now,” he said.  “I took you for a ghost—­ the ghost of a man I once knew—­Giovanni Bergamotto.”

This was more than exciting; Giovanni’s father had been one of the murdered hostages of Crema, and if his name came to the ears of the Emperor he would never leave the castle.

Searching his impassive face the jester nodded approvingly.  “I knew it,” he said.  “No one else would have behaved as you did—­and it is for Milan.  Milan!” He slipped from the table and stood up, the bells jangling a weird undertone to his every movement.  “It is better you should know—­I am—­I was when I was alive—­Stefano Baldi.”

Giovanni’s eyes blazed, “And you dare ask a Milanese to drink with you?”

“Hear me,” begged the jester.  “I sinned a great sin—­yes; but I have lived twelve years in torment of body and soul for that sin.  I sinned for love of a woman, and when I had betrayed my people she denied me, and her brothers delivered me over to the executioners.  They spared my life because they thought it not worth the taking, and left me the wrecked and crooked thing you see.  Yet I have served Milan since her fall—­I, the traitor,—­served her by a thousand petty treacheries and inventions.  It was I who sent Henry Plantagenet the news of Barbarossa’s plans.  I have the favor of the Emperor, and hidden things are freely discussed before me.  They know I am Milanese and despise me, but they believe me bought with gold and with the wine which is my besetting sin.”