ng him along.

From that day onward, Trespolo saw the dream of his life nearly
realised. Something rather above a footman and rather below a house
steward, he became the confidant of his master, who found his talents
most useful; for this Trespolo was as sharp as a demon and almost as
artful as a woman. The prince, who, like an intelligent man as he was,
had divined that genius is naturally indolent, asked nothing of him but
advice; when tiresome people wanted thrashing, he saw to that matter
himself, and, indeed, he was the equal of any two at such work. As
nothing in this lower world, however, is complete, Trespolo had strange
moments amid this life of delights; from time to time his happiness was
disturbed by panics that greatly diverted his master; he would mutter
incoherent words, stifle violent sighs, and lose his appetite. The root
of the matter was that the poor fellow was afraid of going to hell. The
matter was very simple: he was afraid of everything; and, besides, it
had often been preached to him that the Devil never allowed a moment's
rest to those who were ill-advised enough to fall into his clutches.
Trespolo was in one of his good moods of repentance, when the prince,
after gazing on the young girl with the fierce eagerness of a vulture
about to swoop upon its prey, turned to speak to his intimate adviser.
The poor servant understood his master's abominable design, and not
wishing to share the guilt of a sacrilegious conversation, opened his
eyes very wide and turned them up to heaven in ecstatic contemplation.
The prince coughed, stamped his foot, moved his sword so as to hit
Trespolo's legs, but could not get from him any sign of attention, so
absorbed did he appear in celestial thoughts. Brancaleone would have
liked to wring his neck, but both his hands were occupied by the staff
of the canopy; and besides, the king was present.

At last they were drawing nearer to the church of St. Clara, where the
Neapolitan kings were buried, and where several princesses of the blood,
exchanging the crown for the veil, have gone to bury themselves alive.
The nuns, novices, and abbess, hidden behind shutters, were throwing
flowers upon the procession. A bunch fell at the feet of the Prince of
Brancaleone.

"Trespolo, pick up that nosegay," said the prince, so audibly that his
servant had no further excuse. "It is from Sister Theresa," he added, in
a low voice; "constancy is only to be found, nowadays, in a convent