father," says she. "But do thou tell me who my mate is to be."
Slyly he looked at her burning face and slyly kissed it. Then he began to sing—
"Quell' drudo, Messer Amore,
Ha scelto un Dardo per cuore!
Dardo acerbo, ardente,
Che fa gridare le genti—
Ohimè! Dolce dolore!"
She had been a fool indeed to miss such a rebus. So the peril was worse than her dread! The lees of twenty ducats shabby in his fist told her how near the peril was.
Going to bed, he folded her in his arms, making her prop while he mumbled comfort.
"It is all for the best, my beauty-bright," he hiccoughed, "all clearly for the best. Messer Alessandro is a lover in ten thousand. I shall be as good as a father-in-law any day of the week. Why, it's 'My honest friend' that he hails me already! That is what a man may call climbing up, I hope, when a poetical roaring blade cuts out your 'servo suo' in that fashion. And he's Sotto-Prefetto, remember. That means all Padua yours for the asking. Sleep sound, my pretty bird, Ippolita bella! After this night you shall sleep by day." So he found, by good luck, his bed, and she a time for tears.
