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The Fool Errant by Maurice Hewlett
page 117 of 358 (32%)

One day I sold my cloak to buy a book. That was a vellum-bound copy of
the Sonnets of Cino of Pistoja, which, with my autograph, "Fr.
Strelleius--Pistoriae--IV Kal. Aug. MDCCXXII," I still possess in my
present retreat at Lucca. Cino had been a famous poet in his day, the
lover of the beautifully named Selvaggia Vergiolesi, who had, in fact,
lived in our romantic tower. I thought that the opportunity of becoming
acquainted, on the very spot, with the mind of a man who must so often
have sighed and sung upon it was well worth an unnecessary garment. The
volume mine, and a few pence besides, I purchased bread, wine and
sausage, and made Virginia a feast. We banqueted first on sausage, next
on poetry, and revelled so late in the latter that we exhausted our
stock of candle, and had none left for the exigencies or possibilities
of the night. Tired out and in the dark we sought our proper ends of the
long room. I, who lay below the window, immediately fell into a deep
sleep.

I was awakened by a dream of suffocation, imprisonment and loss, to find
that of such pains I was literally a sufferer. A thick woollen was over
my mouth and nose, the knees of some monstrous heavy man were on my
chest, cords were being circled and knotted about my hands and arms. My
feet were already bound so fast that the slightest movement of them was
an agony. Dumb, blind, bound, what could I do but lie where I was? The
work was done swiftly, in the pitchy dark, and in silence so profound
that I could hear Virginia's even breathing, separated as she was from
me by the length of a long floor. There was but one effort I could make
with my tied ankles, and that was to raise both legs together and bring
the heels down with a thud upon the boards. The cords cut me to the
bone--the effect upon Virginia was precisely nothing.

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