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THE SENESCHAL.
For an hour or so that night I played the Fool for Messer Ramiro's entertainment in a manner which did high justice to the fame that at Pesaro I had earned for the name of Boccadoro.
Beginning with quip and jest and paradox, aimed now at him, now at the officer who had remained to keep him company in his cups, now at the servants who ministered to him, now at the guards standing at attention, I passed on later to play the part of narrator, and I delighted his foul and prurient mind with the story of Andreuccio da Perugia and another of the more licentious tales of Messer Giovanni Boccacci.

I crimson now with shame at the manner in which I set myself to pander to his mood that with my wit I might defend my life and limbs, and preserve them for the service of my Holy Flower of the Quince in the hour of her need.
One man alone of all those present did I spare my banter.

This was the old seneschal, Miriani.

He stood at his post by the buffet, and ever and anon he would come forward to replenish Messer Ramiro's cup in obedience to the monsters imperious orders.
What fortitude was it, I wondered, that kept the old man outwardly so calm?
His face was as the face of one who is dead, its features set and rigid, its colour ashen.