Sad-browed Palamone!  He threw a leg over his horse’s ears, and slid to the ground with a thud which made earth shake.  He stretched out his arms to beckon me home; and when I would not budge, he scrambled through the briery hedge and took me, whether I would or no, into his strenuous embrace.  He wept over me as a long-lost child of his, slobbered me, patted my head, back, breast.  He held me at arm’s-length to look at me better, hugged me again as if at last he was sure.  “This is verily and indeed,” he cried, “my friend and companion for many years, ardently loved, ardently served, lost for a season, searched for with blood-shedding, and found with tears of thankfulness.  O dearest brother, let us kneel down and thank the Giver of all good, the only True Fount, for this last and most signal instance of His provident bounty!” He did kneel, and had the hardihood to drag me with him; I believe he would have prayed over me like a bishop at a confirmation—­but this blasphemous farce was too much for me.  I jumped up and away in a rage.

“Fra Palamone,” I said, “I don’t know whither this pretence of yours is designed to lead you, but I know well whither it will lead myself—­ namely, with this hoe of mine, to complete the work which I bungled in Florence.  And to the achievement of that I shall instantly proceed, unless you get up from your polluted knees and tell me your real and present business with me here.”

He got up at once—­one of those lightning alterations of his from the discursive to the precise.

“Va bene,” says he, “you shall be satisfied in a moment.”  He fumbled for his pocket-book, and from that selected three papers, which he handed to me in silence and in due order.  They were: 

1.  A power of attorney to Fra Palamone by name from Sir John Macartney, his Britannic Majesty’s representative at the Grand Ducal Court, authorising him to use all diligence and spare no expense in finding Francis-Antony Strelley of Upcote Esquire, wherever he might be in Italy; and with further authority to secure honour for his drafts upon the banking-house of Peruzzi in Florence to the extent of five hundred pounds sterling.

2.  A letter to the said Sir John Macartney from Mr. Simcoe of Gray’s Inn Square, announcing the death of my father, Antony Strelley Esquire.

3.  A letter addressed to me by my honoured, dear and now widowed mother.

Over these documents—­especially the last two of them—­and my mournful reflections upon them, I draw that veil, which no one who has been a bad but repentant son to a saintly parent, will ever ask me to lift up.

My first desire was to be rid of Palamone, my next to think.  I turned shortly on the frate.

“I am obliged to you for your diligence in my affairs,” I said to him, “though I don’t understand how you procured the means of using it.  However, as you seem willing to serve me, you will have the goodness to ride on to Sinalunga and buy me three horses, two suits of clothes, with riding-boots and cloaks for each; body linen sufficient for two persons, valises and whatever else may be necessary—­all being duplicates, remember.  The whole of these necessaries you will bring back to that house which you see in the valley, together with a proper supply of ready money, within three hours of this.  Now be off.”