can find to their liking. And here," I cried, standing before him in
shirt and breeches, barefooted, bareheaded, without a coat to my back,
"here, good man, stands the naked soul of that same Francis, which shall
go shivering forth to declare his shame, to meet his penance, to stand
begging at the door of the Holy Place for the mercy which he has shown
himself unworthy of."

About my disordered hair I tied Aurelia's ribbon, round my upper arm I
placed her garter, to my neck, upon a silken cord, I hung her Venice
slipper. In the bosom of my shirt I placed the little book of devotion
which she had given me, and the "Aminta" of Tasso in which we had last
read together. "Farewell, Beppo," said I; "you may not see Francis
again."

"Where are you going, sir?" he asked me, wondering.

"To Siena--to Aurelia--to Heaven!" and he held up his hands.

"You are never going to Siena as you are," he cried; and I asked him how
else he would have me go.

"Your honour will take cold in the chest," says he, "that's very plain;
but long before that can declare itself your honour will be lodged in
the madhouse. And what is Madam Aurelia to say, by your leave, to an
undressed young gentleman which she declined to say to a dressed one?
Let me tell you, young sir," he added with a sneer, "Siena's not the
only city in Italy where there are madmen."

"Man," I said, "what is it to me, do you suppose, whether I am in a
madhouse or a prison this night? I intend for Siena, and shall certainly