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.