 Day three, the third story of the Decameron. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by J. C. Guan. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio. Translated by J. M. Rigg. Day three, the third story. Under cloak of confession, and in most spotless conscience, a lady, enamored of a young man, induces a booby-fryer unwittingly to provide a means to the entire gratification of her passion. When Pampineo had done, and several of the company had commanded the hardy-hood and wariness of the groom, and also with the wisdom of the king, the queen, turning to Filomena, bait her for low suit. Therefore, with manner de puner, Filomena thus began. The story, which I shall tell you, is of a trick which was actually played by a fair lady upon a booby-religious, and which every layman should find the more diverting that these religious, being, for the most part, great blockheads, and men of odd manners and habits, do nevertheless credit themselves with more ability and knowledge in all kinds, than fall to the lot of the rest of the world. Whereas in truth they are far inferior, and so, not being able, like others, to provide their own sustenance, are prompted by share-baseness to fly thither for refuge where they may find preventer, like pigs. Which story, sweet my ladies, I shall tell you, not merely that thereby I may continue the sequence in obedience to the queen's behest, but also to the end that I may let you see that even the religious, in whom we, in our boundless credulity, repose exorbitant faith may be, and sometimes are, made, not to say by men, even by some of us women, the sport of their sly wit. In our city, where wiles do more abound than either love or faith, there dwelt not many years ago a gentle woman richly endowed, none more so, by nature with physical charms, and also with gracious manners, high spirit, and fine discernment. Her name I know, but will not disclose it, not yet that of any other who figures in this story, because there yet live those who might take offense their at, though after all it might well be passed off with a laugh. High-born and married to an artificer of wooden fabrics, she could not rid her mind of the disdain with which, by reason of his occupation, she regarded her husband, for no man, however wealthy. So he were of low condition, seemed to her worthy to have a gentle woman to wife, and seeing that for all his wealth he was fit for nothing better than to devise a blend, set up a warp, or higgle about yarn with a spinster. She determined to dispense with his embraces, save so far as she might find it impossible to refuse them, and to find her satisfaction elsewhere with one that seemed to her more meet to afford it than her atificer of woolens. In this frame of mind she became enamoured of a man well worthy of her love, and not yet past middle age, in so much that, if she saw him not in the day, she must needs pass an unquiet night. The gallant, meanwhile, remained fancy free, for he knew not of the lady's case, and she, being apprehensive of impossible perils to ensue, was far too circumspect to make it known to him either by writing or by word of mouth of any of her female friends. Then she learned that he had much to do with a religious, a simple, clownish fellow, but nevertheless as being a man of most holy life, reputed by almost everybody a most worthy friar, and decided that she could not find a better intermediary between herself and her lover than this same friar. So, having matured her plan, she hired her at a convenient time to the convent where the friar abode, and sent for him, saying that, if he so pleased, she would be confessed by him. The friar, who saw at a glance that she was a gentle woman, hardly heard her confession, which done, she said, my father, I have yet a matter to confide to you, in which I must crave your aid and counsel. Who my kin's folk and husband are, I watch you know, for I have myself told you. My husband loves me more dearly than his life, and being very wealthy, he can well and does forthwith afford me whatever I desire, therefore, as he loves me, even so I love him more dearly than myself. Nor was there ever yet wicked woman that deserved the fire so richly as should I. Were I guilty? I speak not of acts, but of so much as a single thought of crossing his will or tarnishing his honor. Now, a man there is, his name indeed I know not, but he seems to me to be a gentle man, and if I mistake not, he is much with you. A fine man, and tall, his garb done, and very decent, who, the bent of my mind's being, be like, quite unknown to him, would seem to have laid siege to me, in so much that I cannot show myself at door or casement or quit the house but force with he presents himself before me. Indeed, I find it passing strange that he is not here now. Were at, I am sorely troubled, because, when men so act, unmerited reproach will often thereby be cast upon the honest woman, at times I have been minded to inform my brothers of the matter. But then I have besought me that men sometimes frame messages in such a way as to evoke unto word answers, whence fellow high word, and so they proceed to rash acts. Wherefore, to obvious trouble and scandal, I have kept silent, and by preference have made you my confident, both because you are the gentleman's friend, and because it befits your office to censure such behavior not only in friends but in strangers. And so I beseech you for the love of our only Lord God to make him sensible of his fault, and pray him to offend no more in such short. Other ladies there are in plenty, who may perchance be disposed to welcome such advances, and be flattered to attract his font and assiduous regard, which to me, who am in no wise inclined to encourage it, is but a most grievous molestation. Having thus spoken, the lady bowed her head, as if she were ready to weep. The holy friar was at no loss to apprehend who it was of whom she spoke. He commended her virtuous frame, firmly believing that what she said was true, and promised to take such action that she should not again suffer the like annoyance, nor, knowing that she was very wealthy, did he omit to extol works of charity and almsgiving, at the same time opening to her his own needs. I will make my suit to you, said she, for the love of God, and if your friend should deny what I have told you, tell him roundly that towards from me you had it, and that I made complaint to you, dear of. So her confession ended, and penance imposed, but thinking her of the hints which the friar had dropped touching almsgiving, she slipped into his hands as many coins as it would hold, praying him to say masses for the souls of her dead. She then rose and went home. Not long afterwards the gallant paid one of his wanted visits to the holy friar. They conversed for a while, of diverse topics, and then the friar took him aside, and very courteously reproved him for so haunting and pursuing the lady with his gaze, as, from what she had given him to understand, he is supposed, was his want. The gallant, who had never regarded her with any attention, and very rarely passed her house, was amazed, and was about to clear himself when the friar closed his mouth, saying, Now, away with his pretense of amazement, and waste no words in denial, for it will not avail thee. I have it not from the neighbours. She herself, bitterly complaining of thy conduct, told it to me. I say not how ill this levity besiems thee. But of her I tell thee so much as this, that if I ever knew this woman averse to such idle philandering, she is so, and therefore, for thy honour's sake, and that she be no more vexed, I pretty refrain, therefore, and let her be in peace. The gallant, having rather more insight than the holy friar, was not slow to penetrate the lady's fineness. He therefore made, as if he were rather shame-striking, promised to go no further with this matter, and hide him straight from the friar to the lady's house, where she was always posted at a little casement to see if he were passing by. As she saw him come, she saw him so gay and gracious amine, that he could no longer harbour any doubt that he had put the true construction upon what he had heard from the friar, and thenceforth, to his own satisfaction, and the immense delight and solace of the lady. He omitted not daily to pass that way, being careful to make it appear as if he came upon other business. To us thus not long before the lady understood that she met with no less favour in his eyes than he in hers, and being desirous to add fuel to his flame, and to assure him of the love she bore him. As soon as time and occasion served, she returned to the holy friar, and having sat herself down at his feet in the church, fell a weeping. The friar asked her in a soothing tone what her new trouble might be. Where, too, the lady answered, My father, till still that accursed friend of Dine, of whom I made complaint to you some days ago, and who would now seem to have been born for my most grievous torment, and to cause me to do that by reason whereof I shall never be glad again, nor venture to place myself at your feet. How, said the friar, has he not foreborn to annoy thee? Not he indeed, said the lady. On the contrary, this might believe that, since I complained to you of him, he has, as if into spite, being offended, but like, that I did so, ask my house seven times for once that he did so before. Nay, what to God he were content to pass and fix me with his eyes, but he is waxed so bold and unabashed, that only yesterday he sent a woman to me at home with his compliments and casualties, and, as if I had not purses and girdles enough, he sent me a purse and a girdle, whereat I was, as I still am, so wroth, that has not conscience first, and then regard for you, wait with me. I had flown into a frenzy of rage. However, I restrained myself, and resolved neither to do nor to say ought without first letting you know it. Nor only so, but lest the woman who brought the purse and girdle, and to whom I at first returned them, shortly bidding her be gone, and take them back to the sender. I should keep them and tell him that I had accepted them. As I believe they sometimes do, I recalled her and had them back, albeit to a no-friendly spirit that I received them from her hand, and I have brought them to you, that you may return them to him and tell him that I stand in no need of such gifts from him. Because, thanks be to God and my husband, I have purses and girdles enough to smother him in. And if after this he leave me not alone, I pray you as my father to hold me excused if, come what may, I tell it to my husband, and brothers, for much leaver had I, that he suffer in dignity, if so it must be, then that my firm fame should be solid on his account that holds good friar. Weeping bitterly as she thus ended, she drew from under her robe a purse of very fine and ornate workmanship and a dainty and costly little girdle, and threw them into the lap of the friar, who, fully believing what she said, manifested the utmost indignation as he took them, and said, daughter, that by these advances thou shouldst be moved to anger, I deem neither strange nor sensible, but I am instant with these to follow my advice in the matter. I tried him some days ago, and ill has he kept the promise that he made me, for which cause, and this last feat of his, I will surely make his ears so tingled that he will give thee no more trouble. Wherefore, for God's sake, let not thyself be so overcome with wrath as to tell it to any of thy kin's folk, which might bring upon him a retribution greater than he deserves. Nor fear lest thereby thy fair fame should suffer, for I shall ever be thy most sure witness before God and men that thou art innocent. The lady made a shoe of being somewhat conforted. Then, after a pause, for while she knew the greed of him and his likes, she said, Of late, sir, by night, the spirits of the verse of my kin's folk have appeared to me in my sleep, and we think they are in most grievous torment, alms, alms, they crave, not else, especially my mother, who seems to be in so woeful an abject ape-light, that is pitiful to see. Me thinks, to the most grievous torment to her, to see the trebullation which this enemy of God has brought upon me. I would, therefore, have you say for their souls the forty masses of St. Gregory and some of your prayers that God may deliver them from this purging fire. So, saying, she slipped a flurrin' into the hand of the holy friar, who took it gleefully, and having with edifying words and many examples fortified her in her devotion, gave her his benediction and suffered her to depart. The lady gone, the friar, who had still no idea of the trick that had been played upon him, sent for his friend, who was no sooner come than he gathered from the friar's trouble air that he had news of the lady, and waited to hear what he would say. The friar repeated what he had said before, and then broke out into violent and heated objugation on the score of the lady's latest imputation. The gallant, who did not, as yet apprehend the friar's drift, gave but a very faint denial to the charge of sending the person girdle, in order that he might not discredit the lady with the friar. If perchance she had given him the person girdle. Whereupon the friar exclaimed, with great heat, how can't thou deny it, thou wicked man? Why, here they are. She brought them to me in tears with her own hand. Look at them, and say if thou knowest them not. The gallant now feigned to be much ashamed, and said, why, yes indeed, I do know them. I confess that I did wrong, and I swear to you that, now I know her character, you shall never hear word more of this matter. Many words followed, and then the blockheadly friar gave the person girdle to his friend, after which he read him a long lecture, besought him to meddle no more with such matters, and on his promising obedience dismissed him. Elated beyond measure, by the assurance which he now had of the lady's love, and the beautiful present, the gallant on leaving the friar, hide him straight to a spot whence he stealthily gave the lady to see that he had both her gifts. Whereat the lady was well content, the more so as her intrigue seemed ever to prosper more and more. She waited now only for her husband's departure from home to crown her enterprise with success. Nor was it long before occasion required that her husband should go to Genoa. The very morning that he took horse and rode away, she hide her to the holy friar, and after many a lamentation, said to him betwixt her sobs, my father, now at last I tell you out and out that I can bear my suffering no longer. I promised you some days ago to do not in this matter without first letting you know it. I am now come to crave release from that promise, in that you may believe that my lamentations and complaints are not groundless. I will tell you how this friend of yours, who should rather be called a devil, let loose from hell, treated me only this very morning, a little before matins, as ill luck would have it. He learned, I know not how, that yesterday morning my husband went to Genoa. And so this morning, at the set hour, he came into my garden, and got up by a tree to the window of my bedroom, which looks out over the garden, and had already opened the casement, and was about to enter the room when I suddenly awoke, and got up and uttered a cry, and should have continued to cry out, had not he, who was still outside, implored my mercy for God's sake and yours, telling me who he was. So, for love of you I was silent, and naked as I was born, ran and shut the window in his face, and he, bad luck to him, made off, I suppose, for I saw him no more. Consider now, if such behaviour be seemly and tolerable. I, for my part, am minded to put up with no more of it. Indeed, I have endured too much already, for love of you. Rothbejohn measure was the friar, as he heard her thus speak, nor knew he what to say, except that he several times asked her if she were quite certain that it was no other than he. Holy name of God replied the lady, as if I did not yet know him from another. He it was, I tell you, and do you give no credence to his denial? Daughter, said the friar, there is here not else to say, but that this is a monstrous presumption and a most heinous offence, and thou didst well to send him away as thou didst. But seeing that God had preserved thee from shame, I would implore thee that, as thou has twice followed my advice, do do so likewise on this occasion, and making no complaint to any of thy kin's folk, live it to me, to try if I can control this devil that has slipped his chain, whom I supposed to be a saint, and if I succeed in weaning him from this insensitive folly, well and good, and if I fail, then spores, I give thee leave with my blessing, to do whatsoever may commend itself to thy own judgment. Lo now, answered the lady, once again, I will not vex or disobey you, but be sure that you so order matters, that he refrain from further annoyance, as I give you my word, that never will I have recourse to you again touching this matter. Then, without another word, and with a troubled air, she took leave of him. Scarsely was she out of the church when the gallant came out. The friar called him, took him aside, and gave him the affront in such sort as to as never before given to any man, reviling him as a disloyal and perjured traitor. The gallant, who, by his two previous lessons, had been taught how to value the friar's censures, listened attentively, and sought to draw him out by ambiguous answers. Wherefore, this wrath, sir, he began, have I crucified Christ? A Mark the Fellow's effrontery retorted the friar, list to what he says. He talks forsooth, as if it were a year or so since, and his villainies and lewdness were clean gone from his memory for laps of time. Between my tins, and now has Thou forgotten this morning's outrage? Where was Thou this morning shortly before daybreak? Where was I? Rejoined the gallant? That no, not I. These indeed butimes that the news has reached you. True indeed it is, said the friar, that the news has reached me. I suppose that, because the husband was not there, Thou never doubtest that Thou wouldst forthwith be received by the lady with open arms. Ah, gay gallant! The honourable gentleman! He is now turned prowler by night, and breaks into gardens, and climbs trees. Does Thou think, by sheer importunity, to vanquish the virtue of this lady, that Thou has calladised her windows at night by the trees? She dislikes thee of all things in the world, and yet Thou must still persist. Well indeed has Thou laid my admonitions to heart, to say nothing of the many proofs which she has given thee of her disdain, but I have yet a word for thee. Hitherto, not that she bears thee any love, but she has yielded to my urgent prayers. She has kept silence as to thy misdeeds. She will do so no more. I have given her leave to act as she may think fit, if Thou givest her any further annoyance. And what will Thou do, if she informs her brothers? The gallant, now fully apprised of what it imported him to know, was profuse in promises, whereby, as best he might, he reassured the friar, and so left him. The very next night, as soon as the matin hour was come, he entered the garden, climbed up the tree, found the window open, entered the chamber, and in a trice was in the embers of his fair lady. Anxious as she expected him, and blightly did she now greet him, saying, all thanks to master friar, that he so well taught thee the way hither. Then, with many a jest, and laugh, and the simplicity of the asinine friar, and many a flout, at this staff falls, and comes, and cards, they solace themselves with one another to their no small delight. Nor did they omit, so to arrange matters, that they were well able to dispense with master friar, and yet pass many another night together with no less satisfaction. To which go I pray that I, and all other Christian souls that are so minded, may be speedily guided of God in his holy mercy. Ends of Day 3, the Third Story. Day 3, the fourth story of the Decameron. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eugene Smith. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio. Translated by J. M. Rigg. Day 3, the Fourth Story. Dom Felice instructs Frappuccio how to attain blessedness by doing a penance. Frappuccio does the penance, and meanwhile Dom Felice has a good time with Frappuccio's wife. When Filomena, having concluded her story, was silent, and the ornail had added a few honoured phrases in praise of the lady's wit, and Filomena's closing prayer, the queen glanced with a smile to Pamfilo, and said, Now, Pamfilo, give us some pleasant trifle to speed our delight. That gladly I will return forthwith Pamfilo, and then, Madam, he begun. Not a few there are that, while they use their best endeavors to get themselves places in paradise, due by inadvertence, send others thither, as did, not long ago, be tied a fair neighbor of ours, as usual here. Hard by, San Pancrazio, there used to live, as I have heard tell, a worthy man and wealthy, Puccio di Verniere, by name, who, in later life, under an overpowering sense of religion, became a tertiary of the Order of St. Francis, and was thus known as Frappuccio, in which, spiritual life, he was the better able to persevere that his household consisted but of a wife and a maid, and having no need to occupy himself with any craft, he spent no small part of his time at church, where, being a simple soul and slow of wit, he said his pater-nosters, heard sermons, assisted at the Mass, never missed lords, that is, when chanted by the secular, fasted and mortified his flesh. Nay, so twist-whispered, he was of the flagellants. His wife, Mona Isabetta, by name, a woman of from 28 to 30 summers, still young for her age, lusty, comely and plump as a castle on an apple, had not, unfrequently, by reason of her husband's devoutness, if not also of his age, more than she cared for, of abstinence. And when she was sleepy or maybe rig-ish, he would repeat to her the life of Christ in the sermons of Frappuccio, or the lament of the Magdalene, or the like. Now, while such was the tenor of her life, there returned from Paris a young monk, by name Dom Felice, of the convent of San Pancrazio, a well-favored man and keen-witted and profoundly learned, with whom Frappuccio became very intimate. And as there was no question which he could put to him but Dom Felice could answer it, and moreover he made great show of holiness, for well he knew Frappuccio's bent. Frappuccio took to bringing him home, and entertaining him at breakfast and supper, as occasion served. And for love of her husband, the lady also grew familiar with Dom Felice, and was zealous to do him honor. So the monk, being a constant visitor of Frappuccio's house, and seeing the lady so lusty and plump, surmised that of which she must have most lack, and made up his mind to afford, if he could, at once relief to Puccio and contentment to the lady. So cautiously, now and again, he cast an admiring glance in her direction with such effect that he kindled in her the same desire with which he burned. And marking his success, took the first opportunity to declare his passion to her. He found her fully disposed to gratify it, but how this might be, he was at a loss to discover, for she would not trust herself with him in any place whatever except her own house. And there it could not be, because Frappuccio never traveled, whereby the monk was greatly dejected. Long he pondered the matter, and at length thought of an expedient, whereby he might be with the lady in her own house, without incurring suspicion, notwithstanding that Frappuccio was there. So, being with Frappuccio one day, he said to him, reasons many have I to know Frappuccio that all thy desire is to become a saint, but it seems to me that thou farest by a circuitous root, whereas there is one very direct, which the pope and the greater prelates that are about him know and use, but will have it remain a secret, because otherwise the clergy, who for the most part live by alms, could not then expect alms or ought else from the laity would be speedily ruined. However, as thou art my friend, and hast shown me much honour, I would teach thee that way, if I were assured that thou wouldst follow it without letting another soul in the world hear of it. Frappuccio is now all aghag to hear more of the matter, and began most earnestly in treating Dom Felice to teach him the way, swearing that without Dom Felice's leave, none should ever hear of it from him, and avering that if he found it practicable, he would certainly follow it. I am satisfied with thy promises, said the monk, and I will show thee the way. Know then that the holy doctors hold that whoso would achieve blessedness must do the penance of which I shall tell thee, but see thou take me judiciously. I do not say that after the penance thou wilt not be a sinner, as thou art, but the effect will be that the sins which thou hast committed up to the very hour of the penance will be purged away, and thereby remitted to thee, and the sins which thou shalt commit thereafter will not be written against thee to thy damnation, but will be quit by holy water, like venial sins. First of all, then, the penant must, with great exactitude, confess his sins when he comes to begin the penance. Then follows a period of fasting and very strict abstinence, which must last for forty days, during which time he is to touch no woman, whomesoever, not even his wife. Moreover, thou must have in thy house some place whence thou mayst see the sky by night, whither thou must resort at compland. And there thou must have a beam, very broad, and placed in such a way that, standing, thou canst rest thy nether part upon it, and so not raising thy feet from the ground, thou must extend thy arms so as to make a sort of crucifix, and if thou wouldst have pegs to rest them on, thou mayst. And on this matter, thy gaze fixed on the sky and never moving a jot, thou must stand until matins. And were thou lettered, it were proper for thee to say, meanwhile, certain prayers that I would give thee, but as thou art not so, I must say three hundred patronausters, and as many avamarillas, in honor of the Trinity. And thus contemplating the sky, be ever mindful that God was the creator of the heaven and the earth, and being set, even as Christ was upon the cross, meditate on his passion. Then, when the mat and bell sounds, thou mayst, if thou please, go to bed, but see that thou undress not, and sleep. But in the morning, thou must go to church, and hear at least three masses, and say fifty patronausters, and as many avamarillas. After which, thou mayst, with a pure heart, do all that thou hast to do, and breakfast. But at Vespers, thou must be again at church, and say there, certain prayers, which I shall give thee in writing, and which are indispensable, and after compland, thou must repeat thy former exercise. Do this, and I, who have done it before thee, have good hope, that even before thou shalt have reached the end of the penance, thou wilt, if thou should do it in and of out spirit, have already a marvelous foretaste of the eternal blessedness. This, said Frappuccio, is neither a very severe nor a very long penance, and can be very easily arranged, wherefore in God's name I will begin on Sunday. And so he took his leave of Dom Felice, and went home, and by Dom Felice's permission informed his wife of every particular of his intended penance. The lady understood very well what the monk meant by enjoining him not to stir from his post until matins, and deeming it an excellent device, she said that she was well content that he should do this, or ought else that he fought good for his soul, and to the end that his penance might be blessed of God, she would herself fast with him, though she would go no further. So they did, as they had agreed, when Sunday came Frappuccio began his penance, and Master Monk, by understanding with the lady, came most evenings, at the hour when he was secure from discovery, to sup with her, always bringing with him abundance both of meat and of drink, and after slept with her till the matten hour, when he got up and left her, and Frappuccio went to bed. The place where Frappuccio had chosen for his penance was close to the room in which the lady slept, and only separated from it by the thinnest of partitions, so that the monk and the lady, disporting themselves with one another without stint or restraint, Frappuccio thought he felt the floor of the house shake a little, and pausing at his hundredth paternoster, but without leaving his post, called out to the lady to know what she was about. The lady, who dearly loved the jest, and was just then riding the horse of St. Benedict, or St. John Wildbear, answered, If faith, husband, I'm as restless as may be. Restless, said Frappuccio, how so? What means this restlessness? Where, too, with a hearty laugh, for which he doubtless had good occasion, the body lady replied, What means it? How should you ask such a question? Why, I have heard you say a thousand times, who fasting goes to bed, uneasy lies his head. Frappuccio, supposing that her wakefulness and restlessness a bed was due to want of food, said in good faith, Wife, I told thee I would have thee not fast, but as thou has chosen to fast, think not of it, but think how you may as compose thyself to sleep. Thou tossest about the bed in such sort that the shakings felt here. That need caused thee no alarm, rejoined the lady. I know what I'm about. I will manage as well as I can, and do thou likewise. So Frappuccio said no more to her, but resumed his paternostres. And thenceforth, every night, while Frappuccio's penance lasted, the lady and master monk, having had a bed made up for them in another part of ours, did there wanton it most gamesomely, the monk departing, and the lady going back to her bed, at one and the same time, being shortly before Frappuccio's return from his nightly vigil. The friar thus persisting in his penance, while the lady took her fill of pleasure with the monk, she would from time to time say jestingly to him, thou last penance upon Frappuccio, whereby we are rewarded with paradise. So, well indeed, did she relish the dainties with which the monk regaled her, the more so by contrast with the abstinious life to which her husband had long accustomed her, that when Frappuccio's penance was done, she found means to enjoy them elsewhere, and ordered her indulgence with such discretion as to ensure its long continuance. Whereby, that my story may end as it began, it came to pass that Frappuccio, hoping by his penance to win a place for himself in paradise, did, in fact, translate thither the monk who had shown him the way, and the wife who lived with him in great dearth of that which the monk, in his charity, gave her superabundant largesse. End of Day 3, the Fourth Story Day 3, the fifth story of the Decameron. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Decameron, by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by J. M. Rigg, Day 3, the Fifth Story Zima gives a palfrey to Messer Francesco Vergelesi, who in return suffers him to speak with his wife. She keeping silence, he answers in her stead, and the sequel is in accordance with his answer. When Pamphilo had brought the story of Frappuccio to her clothes amid the laughter of the ladies, the queen debonairly bade Elisa to follow suit, and she, whose manner had in it a slight touch of severity, which betoken not despite, but was habituated to her, thus began. Many there are that being very knowing, many there are that being very knowing think that others are quite the reverse, and so many a time thinking to beguile others are themselves beguiled, wherefore I deem it the height of folly for any one wantonly to challenge another to a contest of wit. But as perchance all may not be of the same opinion, I am minded without deviating from the prescribed order to acquaint you with that which thereby befell a certain knight of Pistoia. Know then that at Pistoia there lived a knight Messer Francesco by name of the Vergelesi family, a man of much wealth and good parts, being both wise and clever, but with all niggerly beyond measure. Which Messer Francesco, having to go to Milan in the capacity of Podesta, had provided himself with all that was meat for the honourable support of such a dignity, save only a palfre handsome enough for him, and not being able to come by any such, he felt himself at a loss. Now there was then in Pistoia a young man, Ricciardo, by name of low origin, but great wealth, who went always so trim and fine, and foppish of person, that folk had bestowed upon him the name of Zima, by which he was generally known. Zima had long and to no purpose burned and yearned for love of Messer Francesco's very fair and no less virtuous wife. His passion was matter of common notoriety, and so it befell that someone told Messer Francesco that he had but to ask Zima, who was the possessor of one of the handsomest palfre's entuskene, which on that account he greatly prized, and he would not hesitate to give in the horse for the love which he bore his wife. So our niggerly night sent for Zima, and offered to buy the horse of him, hoping thereby to get him from Zima as a gift. Zima heard the night gladly, and thus made answer. Sell you my horse, sir, I would not, though you gave me all that you have in the world. But I shall be happy to give him to you, when you will, on this condition, that before he pass into your hands I may by your leave and in your presence say a few words to your wife so privately that I may be heard by her alone. Thinking at once to gratify his cupidity and to outwit Zima, the night answered that he was content, that it should be even as Zima wished. Then, leaving him in the hall of the palace, he went to his lady's chamber, and told her the easy terms on which he might acquire the palfre, bidding her give Zima his audience, but on no account to vouch-save him a word of reply. This the lady found by no means to her mind, but, as Zima's needs obey her husband's commands, she promised compliance and followed him into the hall to hear what Zima might have to say. Zima then renewed his contract with the night in due form, whereupon the lady being seated in a part of the hall where she was quite by herself, he sacked down by her side, and thus began, Noble Lady, I have too much respect for your understanding to doubt that you have long been well aware of the extremity of passion, where too I have been brought by your beauty, which certainly exceeds that of any other lady that I have ever seen, to say nothing of your exquisite manners and incomparable virtues, which might well serve to captivate every soaring spirit that is in the world. Wherefore there need no words of mind to assure you that I love you with a love greater and more ardent than any that man yet bore to woman, and so without doubt I shall do, as long as my woeful life shall hold this frame together, nay longer yet, for if love there be in the next world as in this, I shall love you ever more. And so you may make your mind secure that there's nothing that is yours, be it precious or be it common, which you may count as in such, and so sure, assort your own as me, for all that I am and have, and that thereof you may not lack evidence of infallible cogency. I tell you that I should deem myself more highly favored, if I might, at your command, do somewhat to pleasure you, than if at my command the whole world were forthwith to yield me obedience. And as this even in such sort that I am yours, this not unworthily that I make bold to offer my petitions to your highness, as being to me the sole exclusive source of all peace, of all bliss, of all health. Wherefore, as your most lowly vassal, I pray you, dear my bliss, my soul's one hope, wherein she nourishes herself in love's devouring flame, that in your great benignity you deign so far to mitigate the harshness which in the past you have shown towards me, yours thought I am, that consoled by your compassion. I may say that, as to us by your beauty, that I was smitten with love, so this to your pity, that I owe my life, which if in your heartiness you lend not ear unto my prayers, will assuredly fail, so that I shall die, and it may be to will be said that you slew me. To it not redound to your honor that I died for love of you, but let that pass I cannot but think, however that you would sometimes feel a touch of remorse, and would grieve that to us your doing, and that now and again, relenting, you would say to yourself, ah, how wrong it was of me that I had not pity on my Zima, by which too late repentance you would but enhance your grief. Whereof that this come not to pass, repent you while it is in your power to give me ease, and show pity on me before I die, seeing that with you it rests to make me either the gladdest or the saddest man that lives. My trust is in your generosity that will not brook that a love so great, and of such a sort as mine, should receive death for gird'n, and that by a gladsome and gracious answer you will repair my shattered spirits, which are all a tremble in your presence for very fear. When he had done, he heaved several very deep sighs, and a few tears started from his eyes, while he awaited the latest answer. Long time he had wooed her with his eyes, had tilted in her honor, had greeted her rising with music, and against these and all like modes of attack she had been proof, but the heartfelt words of her most ardent lover were not without their effect, and she now began to understand what she had never till then understood to wit what love really means. So albite she obeyed her lords behest and kept silence, yet she could not but betray by a slight sigh that which, if she might have given Zema his answer, she would readily have avowed. After waiting a while, Zema found it strange that no answer was forthcoming, and he then began to perceive the trick which the night had played him. However he kept his eyes fixed on the lady, and, observing that her eyes glowed now and again, as they met his, and noting the partially suppressed sighs which escaped her, he gathered a little hope which gave him courage to try a novel plan of attack. So while the lady listened, he began to make answer for herself to himself on this wise. Zema, mine, true indeed it is that long since I discerned the thou that's loved me, with a love exceeding great and wholehearted, whereof I have now yet ampler assurance by thine own words, and well content I am therewith, as indeed I ought to be. And however harsh and cruel I may have seemed to thee, I would by no means have thee believe, that I have been such a heart as I have seemed an aspect, rather be assured, that I have ever loved thee and held thee dear above all other men. The man which I have worn was but prescribed by fear of another, and solicitude for my fair frame, but a time will soon come when I shall be able to give thee plain proof of my love, and to accord the love which thou hast borne and doth bear me its due gird'n, wherefore be comforted and of good hope, for myself Francesco is to go in a few days time to me land, as podesta, as thou well knowest, seeing that for love of me thou hast given him thy fine palfry. And I vow to thee upon my faith, upon the true love which I bear thee, that without fail, within a few days thereafter, thou shall be with me, and we will give our love complete, in glance and consummation, and that I may have no more occasion to speak to thee of this matter, be it understood between us that henceforth when thou shalt observe two towels disposed at the window of my room, which overlooks the garden, thou shalt come to me after nightfall of that same day by the garden door, and look well to it that thou be not seen, and thou shalt find me waiting for thee, and we will have our fill of mutual cheer and solace all night long. Having thus answered for the lady, Zima resumed his own person and thus replied to the lady, There is madam, your boon responds so overpowers my every faculty, that scars can I frame words to render you due thanks, and where I able to utter all I feel, time, however long, would fail me fully to thank you, as I would feign, and as I ought wherefore I must even leave it to your sage judgment to divine that which I yearn in vain to put in words. Let this one word suffice, that as you bid me, so I shall not fail to do, and then having, per chance, firmer assurance of the great boon which you have granted me, I will do my best endeavor to thank you in terms, the amplest that I may command. For the present there is no more to say, and so, dearest my lady, I commend you to God, and may he grant you your heart's content of joy and bliss. To all which the lady returned never a word, wherefore Zima rose and turned to rejoin the night, who seeing him on his feet came towards him and said with a laugh, How sayest thou? have I faithfully kept my promise to thee? Not so, sir, replied Zima, for by thy word I was to have spoken with thy wife, and by thy deed I have spoken to a statue of marble, which remark was much relished by the night, who, well as he had thought of his wife, thought now even better of her, and said, So thy pile free, that was, is now mine, out and out. This even so, sir, replied Zima, but had I thought to have gotten such fruit as I have from this favor of yours, I would not have craved it, but would have let you have the palfrey as a free gift, and would to God I had done so, for as it is you have bought the palfrey, and I have not sold them. This drew a laugh from the night, who within a few days thereafter mounted the palfrey which he had gotten, and took the road for Milan, there to enter on his podestate. The lady, now mistress of herself, bethought her of Zima's words, and the love which he bore her, and for which he had parted with his palfrey, and observing that he frequently passed her house, said to herself, What am I about? Why throw I my youth away? My husband is gone to Milan, and will not return for six months, and when can he ever restore them to me? When I am old, and besides, shall I ever find another such lover as Zima? I am quite by myself. There's none to fear. I know not why I take not my good time while I may. I shall not always have the like opportunity as at present. No one will ever know. And if I should get known, this better to do and repent than to forbear and repent. Of which meditations the issue was that one day she set two towels in the window, overlooking the garden, according to Zima's word, and Zima having remarked them with much exultation, stole at nightfall alone to the door of the lady's garden, and finding it open crossed to another door that led into the house where he found the lady awaiting him. On sight of him she rose to meet him, and gave him the heartiest of welcomes. A hundred thousand times he embraced and kissed her as he followed her upstairs. Then without delay they hide them to bed, and new loves furthest born. And so far was the first time from being in this case the last, that while the night was at Milan, and indeed after his return there were seasons not a few at which Zima resorted thither to the immense delight of both parties. When Elisa had quite done, the queen, after some commendation of Zima's sagacity, Bade Fiametta followed with the story, where too Fiametta all smiles responded, Richly though our city abounds, as in all things else, so also in instances to suit every topic, yet I am minded to journey some distance thence, and like Elisa, to tell you something of what goes on in other parts of the world, wherefore pass we to Naples, where you shall hear how one of these sanctified that show themselves so shy of love was by the subtlety of her lover brought to taste to the fruit before she had known the flowers of love, whereby at one at the same time you may derive from the past counsel of prudence for the future, and present delectation. In the very ancient city of Naples, which for loveliness has not its superior, or perhaps its equal in Italy, there once lived a young man, renowned alike for noble blood and the splendour of his vast wealth, his name Ricciardo Munutolo. He was mated with a very fair and loving wife, but nevertheless he became enamoured of a lady who in the general opinion vastly surpassed in beauty every other lady in Naples. Cattella, such was the lady's name, was married to a young man likewise of gentle blood, Filippello Fignolfi by name, whom she, most virtuous of ladies, loved and held dear above all else in the world. Being thus enamoured of Cattella, Ricciardo Munutolo left none of those means untried, whereby a lady's favour and love are wanted to be gained, but for all that he made no way towards the attainment of his heart's desire, whereby he fell into a sort of despair and witless and powerless to lose himself from his love, found life scarce tolerable, and yet knew not how to die. While in this frame he languished, it befell one day that some ladies that were of kin to him cancelled him earnestly to be quit of such a love, whereby he could but fret himself to no purpose, seeing that Cattella cared for naught in the world except Filippello, and lived in such a state of jealousy on his account that never a bird flew but she feared lest it would snatch him from her. So soon as Ricciardo heard of Cattella's jealousy, he, for Swiss, began to ponder how he might make it subserve his end. He feigned to have given up his love for Cattella as hopeless, and to have transferred it to another lady, in whose honour he accordingly began to tilt and drowsed and do all that he had been wanted to do in honour of Cattella. Nor was it long before well-nigh all the Neapolitan's, including Cattella herself, began to think that he had forgotten Cattella, and was to the last degree enamoured of the other lady. In this course he persisted, until the opinion was so family-rooted in the minds of all that even Cattella laid aside a certain reserve which she had used towards him, while she deemed him her lover, and, coming and going, greeted him in friendly, neighbourly fashion, like the rest. Now, it so befell that, during the hot season, when according to the custom of Neapolitan's, many companies of ladies and gentlemen went down to the sea coast to recreate themselves, and breakfast and sup, Ricciardo, knowing that Cattella was gone-zither with her company, went likewise with his, but making as if he were not minded to stay there, he received several invitations from the ladies of Cattella's company before he accepted any. When the ladies received him, they all with one accord, including Cattella, began to rally him on his new love, and he furnished them with more matter for talk by feigning a most ardent passion. At length most of the ladies being gone off, one hither, one zither, as they do in such places, leaving Cattella and a few others, with Ricciardo, he tossed at Cattella a light allusion to a certain love of her husband, Filippello, which threw her at once into such a fit of jealousy that she inly burned with a vehement desire to know what Ricciardo meant. For a while she kept her own counsel, then, brooking no more suspense, she adjured Ricciardo by the love he bore the lady whom most he loved to expound to her what he had said touching Filippello. He answered thus, You have adjured me by her to whom I dare not deny ought that you may ask of me. My riddle, therefore, I will presently read you, provided you promise me that neither to him nor to anyone else will you impart ought of what I shall relate to you, until you shall have ocular evidence of its truth, which, so you desire it, I will teach you how you may obtain. The lady accepted his terms, which rather confirmed her belief in his veracity and swore that you would not tell a soul. They then drew a little apart, that they might not be overheard by the rest, and Ricciardo thus began. Madam, did I love you, as I once did, I should not dare to tell you ought that I thought might cause you pain, but now that that love is past I shall have the less hesitation in telling you the truth. Whether Filippello ever resented the love which I bore you, or deemed that it was returned by you, I know not. Whether it were so or no, he certainly never showed any such feeling to me, but so it is that now having waited perhaps until he supposes I am less likely to be on my guard, he shows a disposition to serve me, as I doubt he suspects that I served him. That is to say he would feign have his pleasure with my wife, whom for some time past he has, as I discover, plied with messages through most secret channels. She has told me all, and has answered him according to my instructions, but only this morning, just before I came hither, I found a woman in close parley with her in the house, whose true character and purpose I forthwith divined, so I called my wife and asked her what the woman wanted. Where to she answered? Tiss this persecution by Filippello which thou hast brought upon me by the encouraging answers that thou wouldst have me give him. He now tells me that he is most earnestly desirous to know my intentions, and that should I be so minded, he would contrive that I should have secret access to a banal in this city, and he is most urgent at instant that I should consent, and had star not, wherefore I know not, bid me keep the affair afoot, I would have dismissed him in such a sort that my movements would have been exempt from his prying observation for ever. Upon this I saw that the affair was going too far. I determined to have no more of it, and to let you know it, that you may understand how he requites your wholehearted faith, which brought me of late to the verge of death, and that you may not suppose that these about empty words and idle tales, but may be able, should you so desire, to verify them by sight and touch, I caused my wife to tell the woman who still waited her answer that she would be at the banyo tomorrow about noon, during the siesta, with which answer the woman went away well content. Now you do not, I suppose, imagine that I would send her thither, but if I were in your place, he should find me there instead of her whom he thinks to find there, and when I had been some little time with him I would give him to understand with whom he had been, and he should have of me such honour as he deserved. Whereby I doubt not he would be put to such shame, as would at one at the same time avenge both the wrong which he has done to you and that which he plots against me. Catella, as is the want of the jealous, hearkened to richard those words, and without so much as giving a thought to the speaker or his wiles, inclined at once to credit his story, and began to twist certain antecedent matters into accord with it, then suddenly kindling with wrath, she answered, that to the banyo she would certainly go, to would cause her no great inconvenience, and if he should come she would so shame him that he should never again set eyes on woman but his ears would tingle. Satisfied by what he heard, that his stratatum was well conceived, and success sure, richardo added much in corroboration of his story, and having thus confirmed her belief in it, besought her to keep it always close, where to she pledged her faith. Next morning, richardo hide him to the good woman that kept the banyo to which she had directed Catella, told her the enterprise which she had in hand, and prayed her to aid him therein so far as she might be able. The good woman, who was much beholden to him, assured him that she would gladly do so, and concerted with him all that was to be said and done. She hid in the banyo a room which was very dark, being without any window to admit the light. This room, by richardo's direction, she set an order, and made up a bed there as well as she could, into which bed richardo got, as soon as he had breakfasted, and there awaited Catella's coming. Now Catella, still giving more credence to richardo's story than it merited, had gone home in the evening in a most resentful mood, and Filippello, returning home the same evening with a mind greatly preoccupied, was scarce as familiar with her as he was wanted to be. Which she marking grew yet more suspicious than before, and said to herself, doubtless he is thinking of the lady of whom he expects to take his pleasure tomorrow, as most assuredly he shall not. And so musing and meditating what she should say to him after their encounter at the banyo, she spent the best part of the night. But to shorten my story, upon the stroke of Nun, Catella, taking with her a single attendant, but otherwise adhering to her original intention, hide her to the banyo, which richardo had indicated, and finding the good woman there, asked her whether Filippello had been there that day. Prined by richardo, the good woman asked her whether she were the lady that was to come to speak with him, to which she answered in the affirmative. Go to him, then, said the good woman. And so Catella, in quest of that which she would gladly not have found, was shown to the chamber where richardo was, and having entered without uncovering her head, closed the door behind her. Overjoyed to see her, richardo, sprang out of bed, took her in his arms and said caressingly, Welcome, my soul! Catella, dissembling, for she was minded at first to come to fit another woman, returned his embrace, kissed him, and lavished in demons upon him, saying the while not a word, lest her speech should betray her. The darkness of the room, which was profound, was equally welcomed to both, nor were they there long enough for their eyes to recover power. Richardo helped Catella onto the bed, where with no words said on either side, in a voice that might be recognized, they lay a long while much more to the solace and satisfaction of the one than of the other party. Then Catella, deeming at high time to vent her harboured resentment, burst forth in a blaze of wrath on this wise. Alas! how wretched is the lot of women, how misplaced of not a few the love they bear their husbands! Ah, woe is me! For eight years I have loved thee more dearly than my life, and now I find that thou base miscreants at thou art, dost naught but burn and languish for love of another woman. Here thou hast been, with whom thinkest thou, even with her whom thou hast long deluded with thy false blandishments, making pretence to love her, while thou art enamoured of another. Tis I, Catella, not the wife of Richardo, false traitor that thou art, list if thou knowest my voice, tis I indeed. Ah! would we were but in the light! It seems to me a thousand years till then that I might shame thee as thou deservedest, vile pestilent dog that thou art. Alas! woe is me! Such lovers I have borne so many years, to whom, to this faceless dog, that sinking to have a strange woman in his embrace, has in the brief while that I have been with him here lavished upon me more caresses and endearments than during all the for-past time that I have been his. A lively spark indeed, art thou to-day, renegade dog that shows thyself so limp and innovate and impotent at home. But, God, be praised, thou hast till thine own plot and not another's, as thou didst believe. No wonder that last night thou heldest a loop from me, thou wasst thinking of scattering thy seed elsewhere, and wasst minded to show thyself a lusty night when thou shouldst join battle. But praise be to God in my sagacity, the water has nevertheless taken its proper course. Where is thy answer, culprit? Has thou not to say? Have my words struck thee dumb? God's faith! I know not why I forbear to pluck thine eyes out with my fingers. Thou thoughtest to perpetrate this treason with no small secrecy, but by God, one is as knowing as another, thy plot has failed. I had better hounds on thy trail than thou didst think for. Richardo, inly delighted by her words, made no answer, but embraced and kissed her more than ever, and overwhelmed her with his endearments. So she continued her reproaches, saying, I thou thinkest to cajole me with thy feigned caresses, weary some dog that thou art, and so to pacify and mollify me, but thou art mistaken, I shall never be mollified until I have covered thee with infamy in the presence of all our kinsfolk and friends and neighbours. Am I not, miscreant, as fair as the wife of Richardo Munutolo? Am I not as good a lady as she? Why dost not answer vile dog? Wherein has she the advantage of me? Away with thee, touch me not! Thou hast done feats of arms more than enough for to-day. While I know that, now that thou knowest who I am, thou wilt wreak thy will on me by force. But by God's grace I will yet disappoint thee. I know not why I forbear to send for Richardo, who loved me more than himself and yet was never able to boast that he had a single glance from me, nor know I why to a wrong to do so. Thou thoughtest to have his wife here, and is no fault of thine that thou hadst her not. So if I had him, thou couldst not justly blame me. Enough had now been said. The lady's mortification was extreme, and as she ended, Richardo besought him that if he suffered her, thus deluded to depart, much evil might ensue. He therefore resolved to make himself known, and disabuse her of her error. So, taking her in his arms, and clipping her so close that she could not get loose, he said, Sweet my soul, be not wroth, that which while artlessly I loved, I might not have, love has taught me to compass by guile. Know that I am thy Richardo. At these words, and the voice, which she recognized, Catella started, and would have sprung out of the bed, which being impossible, she essayed a cry, but Richardo laid a hand upon her mouth, and closed it, saying, Madam, that which is done can never be undone, though ye should cry out for the rest of your days, and should you in such, or any otherwise, publish this matter to any, two consequences will ensue. In the first place, and this is a point which touches you very nearly, your honor and fair fame will be blasted, for however you may say that I lured you hither by guile, I shall deny it, and affirm on the contrary that I induced you to come hither by promises of money and gifts, and that it is but because you are vexed, that what I gave you did not altogether come up to your expectations that you make such a cry in clamor, and you know that folk are more prone to believe evil than good, and therefore I am no less likely to believe than you. The further consequence will be mortal enmity between your husband and me, and the event were as like to be that I killed him as that he killed me, which if I did you would never more know joy or peace. Wherefore, heart of my body, do not at one and the same time bring you dishonor upon yourself, and set your husband and me at strife and in jeopardy of our lives. You are not the first, nor will you be the last to be beguiled, nor have I beguiled you to rob you of ought, but for excess of love that I bear, and shall ever bear you, being your most lowly vassal. And though it is now a great while that I, and what I have and can, and am worth, are yours, yet I am minded that so shall be henceforth more than ever before. Your discretion in other matters is not unknown to me, and I doubt not to be equally manifest in this. Richardo's admonitions were received by Catella with many a bitter tear, but though she was very wroth and very sad at heart, yet Richardo's true words so far commanded the assent of her reason that she acknowledged that it was possible they might be verified by the event. Wherefore, she made answer, Richardo, I know not how God will grant me patience to bear the villainy and navery which thou hast practised upon me, and though in this place, to which simplicity and excess of jealousy guided my steps, I raise no cry, rest assured that I shall never be happy, until in one way or another I know myself avenged of that which thou hast done to me. Wherefore unhand me, let me go, thou hast had the desire of me, and has tormented me to thy heart's content. It is time to release me, let me go, I pray thee. But Richardo, seeing that she was still much ruffled in spirit, was resolved not to let her go until he made his peace with her. So he addressed himself to soothe her, and by dint of most dulcet phrases, and in treaties and adorations, he did at last prevail with her to give him her pardon. Nay, by joint consent they tarried there a great while to the exceeding great delight of both. Indeed the lady, finding her lover's kisses smack much better than those of her husband, converted her asparity into sweetness, and from that day forth cherished a most tender love for Richardo, whereof, using all circumspection, they many a time had solace. God grant us solace of ours. End of Day 3, the 6th story. Day 3, the 7th story of the Decameron. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by J. M. Rigg. Day 3, the 7th story. Tadaldo, being in disfavor with his lady, departs from Florence. He returns to the after a while in the guise of a pilgrim, has speech of his lady, and makes her sensible of her fold. Her husband, convicted of slaying him, he delivers from peril of death, reconciles him with his brothers, and thereafter discreetly enjoys his lady. I am minded to return to our city, when my two last predecessors saw fit to depart, and to show you how one of our citizens recovered the lady he had lost. Know then that there was in Florence a young noble, his name Tadaldo Elisei, who, being beyond measure and a moored of a lady, hide Mona Hermalina, wife of one Aldo Brandino Palamini, and by reason of his admirable qualities, richly deserving to have his desire, found fortune nevertheless adverse, as she is wont to be to the prosperous. In as much as, for some reason or another, the lady, having shown herself gracious towards Tadaldo for a while, completely altered her mean, and not only showed him no further favor, but would not so much as receive a message from him, or suffer him to see her face, whereby he fell a prey to a grievous and distrustful melancholy. But so well had he concealed his love, that the cause of his melancholy was surmised by none. He tried hard and diverse ways to recover the love which he deemed himself to have lost, for no fault of his, and finding all his efforts unavailing, he resolved to bid the world at due, that he might not afford her who was the cause of his distress the satisfaction of seeing him languish. So he got together as much money as he might, and secretly, no words had to friend or kinsman, except only a familiar gossip, who knew all, he took his departure for Ancona. Arrived there, he assumed the name of Filippo Santodecchio, and having foregathered, with a rich merchant, entered his service. The merchant took him with him to Cyprus aboard one of his ships, and was so well pleased with his bearing and behavior, that he not only gave him a handsome salary, but made him and assort his companion, and entrusted him with the management of no small part of his affairs. Wherein he proved himself so apt and assiduous, that in the cause of a few years he was himself established in credit and wealth, and great repute as a merchant. Seven years thus passed, during which, albeit his thoughts frequently reverted to his cruel mistress, and sorely loved smother him, and much he yearned to see her again. Yet such was his firmness that he came off conqueror. Until one day in Cyprus, it so befell that there was sung in his hearing a song that he had himself composed, and of which the theme was the mutual love that was between his lady and him, and the delight that he had of her. Which, as he heard, he found it incredible that she should have forgotten him, and burned with such a desire to see her once more that, being able to hold out no longer, he made up his mind to return to Florence. So, having set all his affairs in order, he betook him attended only by a single servant to Ancona, whence he sent all his effects as they arrived forward to Florence, consigning them to a friend of his and content partner, and followed with his servant in the disguise of a pilgrim returned from the Holy Sepulchre. Arrived at Florence, he put up at a little hostelry, kept by two brothers hard by his lady's house. Whether he forthwith hide him, hoping that, perchance, he might have sight of her from the street. But, finding all barred and bolted, doors, windows, and all else, he doubted much she must be dead, or have removed thence. So, with a very heavy heart, he returned to the house with the two brothers, and to his great surprise found his own four brothers standing in front of it, all in black. He knew that he was so changed from his former semblance, both in dress and in person, that he might not readily be recognized, and he had therefore no hesitation in going up to a shoemaker and asking him why these men were all dressed in black. The shoemaker answered, "'Tis because this not fifteen days since the brother of theirs, Tadaldo by name, that had been long abroad, was slain, and I understand that they have proved in court that one Aldo Brandino Palermini, who is under arrest, did the deed, because Tadaldo, who loved his wife, was come back to Florence incognito to forgather with her. Tadaldo found it passing strange that there should be anyone so like him as to be mistaken for him, and applaud Aldo Brandino's evil plight. He had learned, however, that the lady was alive and well. So, as it was now night, he hide him, much perplexed in mind, into the inn, and subbed with his servant. The bedroom assigned him was almost at the top of the house, and the bed was none of the best. Thoughts many and disquieting haunted his mind, and his supper had been but light. Whereby it befell that midnight came and went, and Tadaldo was still awake. As thus he watched, he heard shortly after midnight a noises of persons descending from the roof into the house, and then through the chinks of the door of his room, he caught the flicker of an ascending light. Wherefore he stole softly to the door, and peeping through a chink to make outward was a foot, he saw a very fine young woman bearing a light, and three men making towards her, being evidently those that had descended from the roof. The man exchanged friendly greetings with a young woman, and then once said to her, Now, God be praised, we may make our minds easy, for we are well assured that judgment for the death of Tadaldo Elysei is governed by his brothers against Aldo Brandino Palamini, and he has confessed, and the sentence is already drawn up, but still it behoves us to hold our peace, for should it ever get abroad that we were guilty, we shall stand in a like jeopardy as Aldo Brandino. So saying, they took leave of the woman, who seemed much cheered, and went to bed. What he had heard, Tadaldo musing on the number and variety of the errors to which men are liable, as first how his brothers had mourned and in turned a stranger in his stead, and then charged an innocent man upon false suspicion, and by false witness brought him into imminent peril of death, from which he passed to ponder the blind severity of laws and magistrates, who from misguided zeal to illicit truth not unfrequently become ruthless, and adjudging that which is false forfeit the title which they claim of ministers of God and justice, and do but execute the mandates of iniquity and the evil one. And so he came at last to consider the possibility of saving Aldo Brandino, and formed a plan for the purpose. Accordingly, on the morrow when he was risen, he left his servant at the inn, and hide him alone at what he deemed a convenient time to his lady's house, where, finding by chance the door open, he entered and saw his lady sitting, all tears and lamentations in little pile on the ground floor. Whereat he all but wept for sympathy, and drawing near her, he said, Madam, be not troubled in spirit. Your peace is nigh. Whereupon the lady raised her head, and sat between her sobs, Good man, what dost thou, a pilgrim, if I must take not from distant parts, know either of my peace or of my inflection? Madam, returned the pilgrim, I am of Constantinople, and am but now come hither at God's behest, that I may give you laughter for tears, and deliver your husband from death. But, said the lady, if thou art of Constantinople, and but now arrived, how is that I knowst either who my husband is or who I am? Whereupon the pilgrim gave her the whole narrative from the very beginning of Aldo Brandino's sufferings, he also told her who she was, how long she had been married, and much besides that was known to him of her affairs. Whereat the lady was lost in wonder, and, taking him to be a prophet, threw herself on her knees at his feet, and besought him for God's sake, if he were come to save Aldo Brandino, to lose no time, for the matter brook no delay. Thus adjured, the pilgrim assumed an air of great sanctity, as he said, Arise, Madam, weep not, but harken diligently to what I shall say to you, and look to it that you impart it to none. I have it by revelation of God, that the tribulation wherein you stand is come upon you, in requital of a sin which you did once commit, of which God has minded that this suffering be a partial purgation, and that you make reparation in full, if you would not find yourself in a far more grievous plight. Sir, replied the lady, many sins have I committed, nor know I how among them all to single out that whereof more than another God requires reparation at my hands. Wherefore, if you know it, tell at me, and what by way of reparation I may do, that will I do. Madam, returned the pilgrim, well what I, what it is, nor shall I question you thereof for my better instruction, but that the rehearsal may give you increase or remorse therefore. But pass we now to fact. Tell me, mind you ever to have had a lover? We're at the lady, heaved at deep sigh. Then, marveling not a little, for she had thought it was known to none, albeit on the day when the man was slain, who was afterwards buried as Tadaldo, there had been some buzz about it, occasioned by some indiscreet words dropped by Tadaldo's gossip and confident, she made answer, I see that there is not that man keeps secret, but God reveals it to you, wherefore I shall not endeavor to hide my secrets from you. True it is that in my youth I was beyond measure and a moored of the unfortunate young man whose death is imputed to my husband, whom I mourned with grieve and faint, for, albeit I showed myself harsh and cruel towards him before his departure, yet neither thereby, nor by his long absence, nor yet by his calamitous death, was my heart enthroned from him. Then, said the pilgrim, it was not the unfortunate young man now dead that you did love, but Tadaldo elisei, but let that pass. Now tell me, wherefore lost he your good graces? Did he ever offend you? Nay, verily, answered the lady, he never offended me at all. My harshness was prompted by an accursed friar, to whom I once confessed, and who, when I told him of the love I bore Tadaldo, and my intimacy with him, made my ears so tingle and sing that I still shudder to think of it, warning me that if I gave it not up I should fall into the jaws of the devil in the abyss of hell, and be cast into the avenging fire, whereby I was so terrified that I quite made my mind up to discontinue my intimacy with him, and to trench the matter I would thenceforth have none of his letters or messages, and so I suppose he went away in despair. Though I doubt not had he persevered a while longer, I should not have seen him wasting away like snow and sunshine without relenting of my harsh resolve. For in sooth there was nothing in the world I would so gladly have done. Then said the pilgrim, Madam, tis this sin, and this only, that has brought upon you your present tribulation. I know positively that Tadaldo did never put force upon you, towards of your own free will, and for that he pleased you that you became an immortal of him. Your constant visitor, your intimate friend he became, because you yourself would have it so, and in the cause of your intimacy you showed him such favour by word and deed that if he loved you first you multiplied his love full a thousandfold, and if so it was, and well yourself from him. You should have considered the whole matter before the die was cast, and not have entered upon it, if you deemed you might have caused a repent to you of it as a sin. As soon as he became yours you became his. Had he not been yours you might have acted as you had thought fit at your own unfettered discretion, but as you were his it was robbery, it was conduct most disgraceful to sever yourself from him against his will. Now you must know that I am a friar, and therefore all the ways of friars are familiar to me, nor does it misbecome me, as it might another, to speak for your behoof somewhat freely of them, as I am minded to do that you may have better understanding of them in the future than you would seem to have had in the past. Time was when the friars were most holy and worthy men, but those who today take the name and claim the reputation of friars have mocked of the friars save only the habit. Nay, they have not even that, for whereas their founders ordained that their habits should be straight of a sorry sort, and of course stuff apt symbols of a soul that in arraying the body in so mean a garb did, despite to all things temporal, our modern friars will have them full and double, and resplendent, and of the finest stuff, and of a fashion goodly and pontifical, wherein without shame they flondered like peacocks in the church, in the piazza, even as to the lady in their robes. And as the fisherman casts his net into the stream with intent to take many fish at one throw, so to the main solicitude and study, art and craft of these friars, to embrace and entangle within the ample folds of their vast swelling skirts, beguines, widows, and other foolish women, I and men likewise in great number. Wherefore, to speak with more exactitude, the friars of today have not of the habit of the friar save only the color thereof, and whereas the friars of old time sort to win men to their salvation, those of today seek to win their women and their wealth. Wherefore they have made it, and make it, their sole concern by declamation and imagery, to strike terror into the souls of fools, and to make believe that sins are purged by alms and masses, to the end that they, base wretches that have fled to friars, not to ensue holiness, but to escape hardship, may receive from this man bread, from that man wine, and from the other man a donation from masses for the souls of his dead. True indeed it is that sins are purged by alms giving and prayer, but did they who give the alms know that they but understand to whom or throw them to so many pigs? And knowing that the fewer be they that share great riches, the greater their ease, just the study of each how best by declamation and intimidation to oust others from that whereof he would feign be the sole owner. They censure a lust in men that they turning therefrom the sole use of their women may remain to the censors. They condemn usury and unlawful gains that, being entrusted with the restitution thereof, they may be able to enlarge their habits and to purchase bishoprics and other great preferments with the very money which they have made believe must bring its possessor to petition. And when they are text with these and many other discreditable practices, they deem that there is no censure, however grave, of which they may not be quit by their glib formula, follow our precepts, not our practice, as if to a possible that the sheep should be of a more austere and rigid virtue than the shepherds. And how many of these whom they put off with this formula understand it not in the way in which they annunciated, not a few of them know. The friars of today would have you follow their precepts, that is to say, they would have you fill their purses with coin, confide to the mere secrets, practice continence, be longsuffering, forgive those that trespass against you, keep yourselves from evil speaking, all which things are good, seemly, holy. But to what end? To the end that they may be able to do that, which, if the lady do it, they will not be able to do. Who knows not that idleness cannot subsist without money. Spend thy money on their pleasures, and the friar will not be able to live in sloth in his order. Go after women, and there will be no place for the friar. Be not longsuffering, pardon not the wrong duel, and the friar will not dare to cross thy threshold to corrupt thy family. But wherefore pursue I the topic through every detail. They accuse themselves as often as they so excuse themselves in the hearing of all that have understanding. Why seclude they not themselves if they misdoubt their power to lead continent and holy lives? Or if they must need not live as recluses, why follow they not that other holy text of the gospel? Christ began to do and to teach. Let them practice first, and school us with their precepts afterwards. A thousand such have I seen in my day, admirers, lovers, philanderers, not of ladies of the world alone, but of nuns. I, and they too, such as made the most noise in the pulpits. Is it such as they that we are to follow? He that does so pleases himself, but God knows if he do wisely. But assume that herein we must allow that your censor the friar spoke truth, to which that none may break the marriage vow without very grave sin. What then, to rob a man, to slay him, to make of him an exile, and a wanderer on the face of the earth, are not these yet greater sins? None will deny that so they are. A woman that indulges herself in the intimate use with a man commits but a sin of nature. But if she rob him, or slay him, or drive him out into exile, her sin proceeds from depravity of spirit. That you did rob Tadaldo, I've already shown you, in that having of your own free will become his, you raft you from him. I now go further and say that, so far as in you lay, you slew him, seeing that, showing yourself ever more and more cruel, you did your utmost to drive him to take his own life. And in the law's intent, he that is the cause that wrong is done, is as culpable as he that does it. Nor is it deniable that you were the cause that for seven years he's been an exile and a wanderer upon the face of the earth. Wherefore, upon each of the said three articles, you are found guilty of a greater crime than you committed by your intimacy with him. But consider we the matter more closely. Perchance Tadaldo merited such treatment. Nay, but assuredly it was not so. You have yourself so confessed. Besides which, I know that he loves you more dearly than himself. He would laud, he would extol, he would magnify you above all other ladies, so as never was heard the like, wheresoever it was seemly for him to speak of you, and it might be done without exciting suspicion. All his bliss, all his honor, all his liberty he avowed was entirely in your disposal. Was he not of noble birth, and for beauty might he not compare with the rest of his townsfolk? Did he not excel in all the exercises and accomplishments proper to you? Was he not beloved, held dear, well seen of all men? You will not deny it. How then could you, at the behest of a poultry friar, silly, brutish and envious, bring yourself to deal with him in any harsh sort? I cannot estimate the error of those ladies who look as scans on men and hold them cheap, whereas, be thinking them of what they are themselves and what and how great is an ability with which God has endowed men above all the other animals, they ought rather to glory in the love which men give them, and hold them most dear, and with all zeal study to please them, that so their love may never fail. In what sort you did so, instigated by the chatter of a friar, some broth-guzzling, pastry-gorging knave without a doubt, you know, and per adventure his purpose was but to install himself in the place once he sought to oust another. This, then, is the sin which the divine justice, which, ever operative, suffers no perturbation of its even balance, or arrest of judgment, has decreed not to leave unpunished, wherefore, as without due cause you devised how you might dispoil Tadaldo of yourself, so, without due cause, your husband has been placed, and is in jeopardy of his life, on Tadaldo's account, and to your sore affliction. Wherefrom, if you would be delivered, there is that which you must promise, I, and much more, which you must perform, to it that should it ever be tied that Tadaldo return hither from his long exile, you will restore him your favour, your love, your tender regard, your intimacy, and reinstate him in the position which he held before you foolishly hearkened to the half-witted friar. Thus ended the pilgrim, and the lady who had followed him with the closest attention, deeming all that he advanced very sound, and doubting not that her tribulation was, as he said, in requital for sin, spoke thus. Friend of God, well I what that the matters which you discourse are true, and, thanks to your delineation, I now in great measure know what manner of men are the friars, whom I have hitherto regarded as all alike holy, nor doubt I that great was my fault in the cause which I pursued towards Tadaldo, and gladly, where it in my power would I make reparation in the manner which you have indicated. But how is this feasible? Tadaldo can never return to us. He is dead, wherefore I know not why I must need give you a promise which cannot be performed. Madam, return the pilgrim, this reveal to me by God that Tadaldo is by no means dead, but alive and well and happy, so only he enjoyed your favour. Nay, but, said the lady, speak advisedly, I saw his body done to death by more than one knife wound. I folded it in these arms, and drenched the dead face with many a tear, whereby perchance I gave occasion for the brute that has been made to my disadvantage. Say what you may, madam, rejoined the pilgrim. I assure you that Tadaldo lives, and if you will but give the promise, then, for its fulfilment, I have good hope that you will soon see him. Whereupon? I give the promise, said the lady, and right gladly will I make it good, nor is there odd that might happen that would yield me such delight as to see my husband free and scatless and Tadaldo alive. Tadaldo now deemed it wise to make himself known, and established the lady in a more sure hope of her husband's safety. Wherefore, he said, Madam, to set your minded ease in regard of your husband, I must first impart to you his secret, which be mindful to disclose to none so long as you live. Then, for such was the confidence which the lady reposed in the pilgrim's apparent sanctity, that they were by themselves in a place remote from observation, Tadaldo drew forth a ring which had guarded with the most jealous care, since it had been given him by the lady on the last night when they were together, and said as he showed it to her, Madam, know you this? The lady recognized it forthwith, and answered, I do, sir, I gave it long ago to Tadaldo. Then the pilgrim, rising and throwing off his clavine and hat, set with the Florentine accent, and know you me? The lady recognizing forthwith the form and semblance of Tadaldo was struck dumb with wonder and fear as of a corpse that is seen to go about as if alive, and was much rather disposed to turn and flee from Tadaldo returned from the tomb, than to come forward and welcome Tadaldo arrived from Cyprus. But when Tadaldo said to her, Fear not, Madam, your Tadaldo am I, alive and well, nor was I ever dead, whatever you and my brothers may think. The lady, partly awed, partly reassured by his voice, regarded him with rather more attention, and inly affirming that was in very truth Tadaldo threw herself upon his neck and wept and kissed him, saying, Sweet my Tadaldo, welcome home. Madam, replied Tadaldo after he had kissed and embraced her, time serves not now for greetings more intimate, tis for me to be up and doing that Aldo Brandino may be restored to you save and sound, touching which matter you will I trust before tomorrow at even here tidings that will gladden your heart. Indeed I expect to have good news tonight, and if so, will come and tell it you, when I shall be less straightened than I am at present. He then resumed his claveen and hat, and, having kissed the lady again, and bade her be of good cheer, took a sleeve and hide him to the prison, where Aldo Brandino lay more occupied with apprehension of imminent death than hope of deliverance to come. As minister of consolation, he gained ready admittance of the warders, and, seating himself by Aldo Brandino's side, he said, Aldo Brandino, in me thou sees the friend sent thee by God, who is touched with pity of thee by reason of thy innocence, wherefore, if in reverent submission to him thou wilt grant me a slight favor that I shall ask of thee, without fail, before tomorrow at even, thou shalt, in lieu of the doom of death, that thou awaitest, hear thy acquittal pronounced. Worthy man, replied Aldo Brandino, I know thee not, nor mind I ever to have seen thee, wherefore, as thou shows thyself solicitous for my safety, my friend indeed thou must needs be, even as thou sayest, and ensuth the crime for which they say I ought to be doomed to death, I never commit it, though others enough I have committed, which perchance have brought me to this extremity. However, if so be that God has now pity on me, this I tell thee in reverent submission to him, that, whereas it is but a little thing that thou crazed of me, there is not, however great, but I would not only promise, but gladly do it. Wherefore, even ask what thou wilt, and if so be that I escape, I will without fail keep my word to the letter. Nay, return the pilgrim, I ask but this of thee, that thou pardoned to dull those four brothers, that in the belief that thou was guilty of their brother's death, they brought thee to this straight, and, so they ask thy forgiveness, account them as thy brothers and friends. How sweet, replied Aldo Brandino, is the saver, how ardent the desire of vengeance, none knows but he that is wronged, but yet, so God may take thought for my deliverance, I will gladly pardon, nay, I do now pardon them, and if I go hence alive and free, I will thenceforth have them in such regard as shall contend thee. Satisfied with this answer, the pilgrim, without further pali, heartily exhorted Aldo Brandino to be of good cheer, assuring him that, before the next day was done, he should be certified beyond all manner of doubt of his deliverance, and so he left him. On quitting the prison, the pilgrim hide him forthwith to the scenery, and, being closeted with a night that was in charge, thus spoke. My Lord, this the duty of all, and most especially of those who hold your place, zealously to bestow themselves that the truth be brought to light, in order as well that those bear not the penalty who have not committed the crime, as that the guilty be punished, and that this may come to pass to your honour and the undoing of the delinquent, I am come hither to you. You what that you have dealt rigorously with Aldo Brandino Palermini, and have found, as you think, that was he that slew to Deldo Elisae, and you are about to condemn him, wherein you are most certainly in error, as I doubt not before midnight to prove to you, delivering the murderers into your hands. The worthy knight, who was not without pity for Aldo Brandino, readily gave ear to the pilgrim's words. He conversed at large with him, and availing himself of his guidance made an easy capture of the two brothers that kept the inn and their servant in their first sleep. He was about to put them to the torture to elicit the true state of the case, when, their courage failing, they confessed without a least reserve, severally at first and then jointly, that was they that had slain to Deldo Elisae, not knowing who he was. Asked for why, they answered that was, because he had sorely harassed the wife of one of them, and would have constrained her to do his pleasure, while they were out of doors. Whereof the pilgrim was no sooner apprised than by leave of the night he withdrew, and hired him privily to the house of Madonna Hermelina, whom, the rest of the household being gone to bed, he found awaiting him alone, and equally anxious for good news of her husband, and a complete reconciliation with her to Deldo. On entering, he blightly exclaimed, Read joys, dearest my lady, for thou mayest rest assured, that tomorrow thou shalt have thy Aldo Brandino back here, save and sound. And to confirm her faith in his words he told her all that he had done. Greater joy was never once than hers of two such glad surprises, to wit to have to Deldo with her alive again, whom she had wailed for verily dead, and to know Aldo Brandino whom she had thought in no long time to wail for dead, now out of jeopardy. Wherefore, when she had affectionately embraced and kissed her to Deldo, they hid them to bed together, and with hearty good will, made gracious and glad some consummation of their peace by interchange of sweet solace. With the approach of day, to Deldo rose, and having first apprised the lady of his purpose, and enjoined her, as before, to keep it most secret, resumed his pilgrims' habit, and sell it forth of her house, to be ready, as occasion should serve, to act in Aldo Brandino's interest. As soon as towards day, the scenery, deeming themselves amply conversant with the affair, set Aldo Brandino at large, and a few days later they caused the malefactors to be beheaded, in the place where they had done the murder. Great was Aldo Brandino's joy to find himself free, nor less great was that of his lady, and all his friends and kinsfolk, and as towards through the pilgrim that it had come about, they brought him to their house, there to reside as long as he cared to tarry in the city, nor could they do him honour and cheer enough, at most of all the lady, who knew her man. But after a while, seeing that his brothers were not only become a common laughing-stock by reason of Aldo Brandino's acquittal, but had armed themselves for very fear, he felt that their reconciliation with him brooked no delay, and accordingly craved of him performance of his promise. Aldo Brandino replied handsomely that it should be had at once. The pilgrim then bade him arrange for the following day a grand banquet, at which he and his kinsfolk and the ladies were to entertain the four brothers and the ladies, adding that he would himself go forthwith, as Aldo Brandino's envoy, and bid them welcome to his peace and banquet. All which being approved by Aldo Brandino, the pilgrim hide him with all speed to the four brothers, who by ample, apt, and unanswerable argument he readily induced to reinstate themselves in Aldo Brandino's friendship by suing for his forgiveness. Which done, he bade them and their ladies to breakfast with Aldo Brandino on the morrow, and they, being assured of his good faith, were consenting to come. So, on the morrow, at the breakfast hour, Tadaldo's four brothers, still wearing their black, came with certain of their friends to Aldo Brandino's house, where he awaited them, and in presence of the company that had been bidden to meet them, laid down their arms, and made surrender to Aldo Brandino, asking his pardon of that which they had done against him. Aldo Brandino received them compassionately, wept, kissed each on the mouth, and let few words suffice to remit each offence. After them came their sisters and their wives, all habited sadly, and were graciously received by Madonna Amalina and the other ladies. The guests, men and women alike, found all things ordered at the banquet with magnificence, nor art and meat for commendation, save the restrained which the yet recent grief be tokened by the somber garb of Tadaldo's kinsfolk laid upon speech, wherein some had found method to accept against the banquet and the pilgrim for devising it as he well knew. But, as he had premeditated, in due time he stood up, the others being occupied with their dessert, and spoke thus, nothing is wanting to complete the gaiety of this banquet except the presence of Tadaldo, whom, as you have been long time with him and have not known him, I will point out to you. So, having divested himself of his clavine and whatever else in his garb denoted the pilgrim, he remained habited in a tunic of green taffeta, in which guys, so great was the wonder with which all regarded him that, though they recognized him, it was long before any dared to believe that it was actually Tadaldo. Marking their surprise, Tadaldo told them not a little about themselves, their family connections, their recent history, and his own adventures, where at his brothers and the rest of the man, all weeping for joy, hasted to embrace him, followed by the women, as well those that were not, as those that were of Kim to him, save only Madonna Amalina. Which Aldo Brandino observing said, What is this, Amalina? How comes it that, unlike the other ladies, thou alone dost Tadaldo no cheer? Cheer, replied the lady in the hearing of all, would I gladly do him such as no other woman has done nor could do, seeing that I am more beholden to him than any other woman, in that to him I owe it that I have thee with me again. This but the words spoken to my disadvantage, while we moored him that we deemed Tadaldo that give me pause. Now, Aldo Bondi, said Aldo Brandino, thinks thou that I heed the yelping of these curses? His silver my deliverance has abundantly disproved it, besides which I never believed it. Quick, get thee up, and go and embrace him. The lady, who desired nothing better, was in this not slow to obey her husband. She rose forthwith, and embraced Tadaldo as the other ladies had done, and did him gladsome cheer. Tadaldo's brothers and all the company, men and women alike, heartily approved Aldo Brandino's handsomeness, and so whatever of despite the rumour had engendered in the minds of any was done away. And now that all had done him cheer, Tadaldo, with his own hands, rend his brothers' suits of black upon their backs, as also the sad, hewed garments which his sisters and sisters-in-law wore, and braid bring other apparel. Which, when they had done'd, there was no lack of singing, dancing, and other sorts of merry-making, whereby the banquet, for all its subdued beginning, had a sonorous close. Then, just as they were, in the blithest of spirits, they hide them all to Tadaldo's house, wherein the evening they subbed, and in this manner they held festival for several days. Twas some time before the Florentines ceased to look on Tadaldo as apportant, as if he were risen from the dead, and the shadow of doubt whether he were really Tadaldo or no, continued to lurk in the minds of not a few, including even his brothers. They had no assured belief, and in that frame had Parchant's long continued, but for casual occurrence that showed them who the murdered man was. It so befell that, one day, some men at arms from Lunigiana passed by their house, and seeing Tadaldo accosts at him, saying, To whom Tadaldo, in the presence of his brothers, answered, You take me for another? Or yet they were abashed, and ask his pardon, saying, Sooth to tell, you're a liker than we ever knew any man like to another, To a comrade of ours, Fazurolu Dapontremoly by name, who came hither a fortnight ago, or perhaps a little more, since when we have not been able to learn what became of him. Most true it is that your dress surprises, because he, like ourselves, was a soldier. Whereupon Tadaldo's eldest brother came forward, and asked how their comrade had been accosted, they told him, and was found to have been exactly as they said, by which and other evidence it was established that was Fazurolu that had been murdered, and not Tadaldo, of whom thenceforth no suspicion lurked in the minds of his brothers or anyone else. So then Tadaldo returned home very rich, and remained constant in his love, nor did the lady again treat him harshly, but, using this question, they long had mutual solace of their love, God grant us solace of ours. End of Day 3, The 7th Story