It may be no later than to- morrow that the earth shall pass away." "So said they in old Rome, Pons, when Nero made torches of them to light his sports." Pons regarded me pityingly.
"Too much learning is a sickness," he complained.

"I was always opposed to it.

But you must have your will and drag my old body about with you--a- studying astronomy and numbers in Venice, poetry and all the Italian _fol- de-rols_ in Florence, and astrology in Pisa, and God knows what in that madman country of Germany.

Pish for the philosophers! I tell you, master, I, Pons, your servant, a poor old man who knows not a letter from a pike-staff--I tell you God lives, and the time you shall appear before him is short." He paused with sudden recollection, and added: "He is here, the priest you spoke of." On the instant I remembered my engagement.
"Why did you not tell me before ?" I demanded angrily.
"What did it matter ?" Pons shrugged his shoulders.

"Has he not been waiting two hours as it is ?" "Why didn't you call me ?" He regarded me with a thoughtful, censorious eye.
"And you rolling to bed and shouting like chanticleer, 'Sing cucu, sing cucu, cucu nu nu cucu, sing cucu, sing cucu, sing cucu, sing cucu.'" He mocked me with the senseless refrain in an ear-jangling falsetto.
Without doubt I had bawled the nonsense out on my way to bed.
"You have a good memory," I commented drily, as I essayed a moment to drape my shoulders with the new sable cloak ere I tossed it to Pons to put aside.