But here comes our friend the fool, and, in his wake, the friar." Fra Domenico--so was he very fitly named, this follower of St.
Dominic--approached with a solemnity that proceeded rather from his great girth than from any inflated sense of the dignity of his calling.
He bowed before Fanfulla until his great crimson face was hidden, and he displayed instead a yellow, shaven crown.

It was as if the sun had set, and the moon had risen in its place.
"Are you skilled in medicine ?" quoth Fanfulla shortly.
"I have some knowledge, Illustrious." "Then see to this gentleman's wounds." "Eh?
Dio mio! You are wounded, then ?" he began, turning to the Count, and he would have added other questions as pregnant, but that Aquila, drawing aside his hacketon at the shoulder, answered him quickly: "Here, sir priest." His lips pursed in solicitude, the friar would have gone upon his knees, but that Francesco, seeing with what labour the movement must be fraught, rose up at once.
"It is not so bad that I cannot stand," said he, submitting himself to the monk's examination.
The latter expressed the opinion that it was nowise dangerous, however much it might be irksome, whereupon the Count invited him to bind it up.
To this Fra Domenico replied that he had neither unguents nor linen, but Fanfulla suggested that he might get these things from the convent of Acquasparta, hard by, and proffered to accompany him thither.
This being determined, they departed, leaving the Count in the company of the jester.

Francesco spread his cloak, and lay down again, whilst the fool, craving his permission to remain, disposed himself upon his haunches like a Turk.
"Who is your master, fool ?" quoth the Count, in an idle spirit.
"There is a man who clothes and feeds me, noble sir, but Folly is my only master." "To what end does he do this ?" "Because I pretend to be a greater fool than he, so that by contrast with me he seems unto himself wise, which flatters his conceit.

Again, perhaps, because I am so much uglier than he that, again by contrast, he may account himself a prodigy of beauty." "Odd, is it not ?" the Count humoured him.
"Not half so odd as that the Lord of Aquila should lie here, roughly clad, a wound in his shoulder, talking to a fool." Francesco eyed him with a smile.
"Give thanks to God that Fanfulla is not here to hear you, or they had been your last words for pretty though he be, Messer Fanfulla is a very monster of bloodthirstiness.

With me it is different.