Chapter 4 - Page 2

country, if you'd believe people's account of themselves."

"Not quite so, Signor Bolto. You and me no great saint. Italian honor
saint because he holy and good."

By this time Ithuel had got his two feet on the round of his seat, his
knees spread so as to occupy as much space as an unusual length of leg
would permit, and his arms extended on the tops of two chairs, one on
each side of him, in a way to resemble what is termed a spread eagle.

Andrea Barrofaldi regarded all this with wonder. It is true, he expected
to meet with no great refinement in a wine-house like that of Benedetta;
but he was unaccustomed to see such nonchalance of manner in a man of
the stranger's class, or, indeed, of any class; the Italian mariners
present occupying their chairs in simple and respectful attitudes, as if
each man had the wish to be as little obtrusive as possible. Still he
let no sign of his surprise escape him, noting all that passed in a
grave but attentive silence. Perhaps he saw traces of national
peculiarities, if not of national history, in the circumstances.

"Honor saint because he holy and good!" said Ithuel, with a very
ill-concealed disdain--"why, that is the very reason why we _don't_
honor 'em. When you honor a holy man, mankind may consait you do it on
that very account, and so fall into the notion you worship him, which
would be idolatry, the awfullest of all sins, and the one to which every
ra'al Christian gives the widest bairth. I would rather worship this
flask of wine any day, than worship the best saint on your
parsons' books."

As Filippo was no casuist, but merely a believer, and Ithuel applied the
end of the flask to his mouth, at that moment, from an old habit of
drinking out of jugs and bottles, the Genoese made no answer; keeping
his eyes on the flask, which, by the length of time it remained at the
other's mouth, appeared to be in great danger of being exhausted; a
matter of some moment to one of his own relish for the liquor.

"Do you call _this_ wine!" exclaimed Ithuel, when he stopped literally
to take breath; "there isn't as much true granite in a gallon on't as in
a pint of our cider. I could swallow a butt, and then walk a plank as
narrow as your religion, Philip-o!"

This was said, nevertheless, with a look of happiness which proved how
much the inward man was consoled by what it had received, and a richness
of expression about the handsome mouth, that denoted a sort of
consciousness that it had been the channel of a most agreeable
communication to the stomach. Sooth to say, Benedetta had brought up a
flask at a paul, or at about four cents a bottle; a flask of the very
quality which she had put before the