m and why the gutter does. Inquire, Alessandro mio, inquire!
There was a wound in the man's ribs big enough for a nest of rats."

Alessandro bowed, but raised his fine eyebrows. He was at that hour most
happily unhappy over the late disappearance of his Glorious Lady. The
peerless beauty of Padua, the incomparable Ippolita, was gone. His
business was to devise dirges, monodies, laments, _descortz_ in the
Provencal manner; to cry "Heigho!" and "Well-a-day!" not "Ban!" or "Out,
haro!" To have these high frenzies, these straining states of the soul,
disturbed by the unclaimed remains of a resolving Jew, was a cruel test.
Yet, he reflected within himself, if his piercing love survived this
inquiry, it was founded on rock. And, indeed, Alessandro believed that
his heart was slowly turning to stone. He felt a curious chill there
when he got up in the morning, a dead weight, a mass to lift with every
choked beat. Perhaps the Jew would end what Ippolita had begun. If so,
well. But, ah, Ippolita, Ippolita bella, Ippolita crudel! Ah, ohime!

Habit set him to work. He instructed his officers, he visited the gates,
questioned, took notes, inspected the gutter in the Via Man di Ferro,
even inspected the Jew. He went to the Via della Gatta, to the fatal
staircase; he bullied two or three landlords of two or three low
taverns; went to the stews, to the Ghetto; talked very loud, flourished
his sword, drove his men this way and that--in fine, did everything
that becomes a young official of spirit. The result of his labours was
that the Jew got posthumous fame out of all proportion to his merits.
The city fairly hummed with him; nobody talked of anything but the dead
Jew.

The goatherds, coming in by the Porta San Zuan a day later, were
shrewdly scrutinised by the Guard. They were numbered off, their names
taken; they were pulled about and flustered, asked questions,
contradicted before they had time to answer, and then called
prevaricators because they said nothing; they were, in fact, brought to
that state of breathless hurry in which a boy will say anything you
choose. This, as everybody knows, is the only way of getting at the
truth.

"There were more of you fellows the other night," said the Corporal of
the Guard. "Where are the rest of you? Come now, out with it; no lies
here!"

Petruccio, who had some sense, shammed to have none; but Andrea, less
happy, was a real fool. At this invitation he looked wise.

"Castracane is not