He slid forward in time as he went, enjoying its astringent smell. Soon he was over the English Channel, headed in a southeasterly direction. A brisk little following breeze pushed him along to the French coast in record time.

Morning found him above Switzerland, and he pumped for more altitude as the Alps came into sight.

Next came the familiar Great St. Bernard Pass; soon after that he was flying over northern Italy. The air was noticeably warmer, even at Azzie's altitude.

Italy! Azzie loved it here. Italy was his favorite country, and the Renaissance, at which he had just arrived, his favorite time. He considered himself a sort of Renaissance demon. He flew over vineyards and tilled fields, little hills and sparkling rivers.

Azzie turned toward the east and, adjusting the set of his wings for the heavier air rising off the land, flew until land and sea seemed to interpenetrate in a great marsh that stretched green and gray below him and combined at last with the Adriatic. And here he came to the outskirts of Venice.

The final yellow rays of the setting sun illuminated the noble old city, glinting off the waters of the canals.

In the oncoming gloom of evening he could just make out the gondolas, each with a lantern suspended from a pole in its rear, making their way back and forth over the Grand Canal.

Chapter 4

Back in York, old Meg the servant was cleaning up the inn when Peter Westfall arrived for his morning pail of ale.

"Master Peter," Meg said, "did you lose something last night? I found this where you gentlemen were sitting."