This was the Fortini, poverished of all save lineage, reckoned the best sword come up out of Italy in half a score of years.

To-night it was Fortini.
If he failed the gray old man's command to-morrow it would be another sword, the next day another.

And, perchance still failing, then might I expect the common bravo's steel in my back or the common poisoner's philter in my wine, my meat, or bread.
"I am busy," I said.

"Begone." "My business with you presses," was his reply.
Insensibly our voices had slightly risen, so that Philippa heard.
"Begone, you Italian hound," I said.

"Take your howling from my door.