ve never heard of Ruggiero Persiano. Who was he, a paladin?

NINA: Yes; a cavaliere errante.

MYSELF: Then who was the daughter of Cladinoro?

NINA: Ettorina.

MYSELF: Do you mean to say that Ettorina went mad for love of Ruggiero
Persiano?

NINA: Yes.

MYSELF (_rising to go_): Finalmente!

ALESS: Yes, but first you must know--

MYSELF: All right, Buffo, never mind about that; at last I know who
Ettorina was and why she went mad and that will do for the present.
Thank you very much and good night.

GILDO: That is what I said. Why did you laugh when I said that?

MYSELF: Say it again, Gildo, and I won't laugh this time.

GILDO: Thank you very night and good much.

MYSELF: Bravo. If you go on at this rate you will soon be speaking
English like a native.

I took leave of the young ladies, and Papa, Alessandro and Gildo
accompanied me to the albergo, where they left me. As I approached my
bedroom door I looked up over it half-expecting to see there the words
which, years ago, I had seen written over the entrance to a Tuscan
monastery:

O beata Solitudo!
O sola Beatitudo!

CHAPTER IV
MALAGIGI

Next morning I called on the buffo in his workshop. His two combustible
Turkish pavilions were finished, ready to be fired by Ettorina, and he
was full of his devils. I inquired why we were doing Guido Santo so
soon; it was only a year since my last visit to Palermo, when I had
witnessed his lamented end after a fortnight of starvation in prison,
and, at this rate, the story would be over in fourteen months instead of
lasting eighteen. The buffo said they had made the experiment of
shortening it. If one has to shorten a story, probably the _Paladins of
France_ with its continuations would suffer less from the process than
many others. At all events it could scarcely grow longer, as a work of
art so often does when one tries to shorten it.

The devils were naturally among the dramatis personae of the teatrino,
but they had to be got ready and repaired and provided with all things
necessary for them to make the subterranean road. I said:

"I am not sure that I quite followed all you told me last night."

"There was perhaps a little confusion?" he inquired apologetically.

"Not at all," I replied politely; "but I never heard of Argantino before.
Did you say he was the son of Malagigi?"

"That is right. He did not happen to be at Roncisvalle, so he was not
killed with Orlando and the ot