"Take those garments," he roughly bade me.
"Go dress yourself in them, then come you back and entertain us." Without answering him, and already anticipating the nature of the clothes he bade me don, I lifted one of the garments from the heap.

It was a foliated jester's cap, with a bell hanging from every point, which gave out a tinkling sound as I picked it up.

I let it fall again as though it had scorched me, the memory of what stood between Madonna Paola and me rising like a warning spectre in my mind.

I would not again defile myself by the garb of folly; not again would I incur the shame of playing the Fool for the amusement of others.
"May it please your Excellency to excuse me," I answered in a firm tone.
"I have made a vow never again to put on motley." He eyed me sardonically for a moment, as if enjoying in anticipation the pleasure of compelling me against my will.

He sat back in his chair and threw one heavily-booted leg across the other.
"In the Citadel of Cesena," said he, "we fear neither God nor Devil, and vows are as water to us--things we cannot stomach.