 Day 2, 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 Philippa Jevens. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by J. M. Rigg. Day 2, the fourth story. Landolfo Rufolo is reduced to poverty, turns Corsair, is captured by Genoese, is shipwrecked, escapes on a chest full of jewels, and, being cast ashore at Corfu, is hospitably entertained by a woman, and returns home wealthy. When Pampinea had brought her story to this glorious conclusion, Loreta, who sat next to her, delayed not, but thus began. Most gracious ladies. The potency of fortune is never, me thinks, more conspicuous than when she raises one, as in Pampinea's story we have seen her raise Alessandro from abject misery to regal state, and such being the limits which our theme henceforth imposes on our invention, I shall feel no shame to tell a story wherein reverses yet greater, are compensated by a sequel somewhat less dazzling. Well, I know that my story, being compared with its predecessor, will therefore be followed with the less interest, but failing of necessity, I shall be excused. Scarce any part of Italy is reputed so delectable as the sea coast between Regio and Gaeta, and in particular the slope which overlooks the sea by Salerno, and which the dwellers there call the slope of Amalfi, is studded with little towns, gardens, and fountains, and people by men as wealthy and enterprising in mercantile affairs as there are anywhere to be found, in one of which towns, to which Ravello, rich as its inhabitants are to-day, there was formerly a merchant who surpassed them all in wealth, Landolfo Ruffolo by name, who yet not content with his wealth but desiring to double it, came nigh to lose it all and his own life to boot. No, then, that this man, having made his calculations as merchants are won't, bought a great ship which entirely at his own expense he loaded with diverse sorts of merchandise, and sailed to Cyprus. There he found several other ships each laden with just such a cargo as his own, and was therefore feigned to dispose of his goods at a very cheap rate, in so much that he might almost as well have thrown them away, and was brought to the verge of ruin. Mortified beyond measure to find himself thus reduced in a short space of time from opulence to something like poverty, he was at his wit's end, and rather than go home poor, having left home rich, he was minded to retrieve his losses by piracy or die in the attempt. So he sold his great ship, and with the price and the proceeds of the sale of his merchandise, bought a light bark such as Corsairs use, and having excellently well equipped her with the armament and all things else meet for such service, took to scouring the seas as a rover, preying upon all folk alike, but more particularly upon the Turk. In this enterprise he was more favoured by fortune than in his trading adventures. A year had scarce gone by before he had taken so many ships from the Turk that not only had he recovered the fortune which he had lost in trade, but was well on the way to doubling it. The bitter memory of his late losses taught him sobriety. He estimated his gains and found them ample, and lest he should have a second fall, he schooled himself to rest content with them, and made up his mind to return home without attempting to add to them. Shy of adventuring once more in trade, he refrained from investing them in any way, but shaped his cause for home, carrying them with him in the very same bark in which he had gotten them. He had already entered the archipelago when one evening a contrary wind sprang up from the south-east, bringing with it a very heavy sea in which his bark could not well have lived. He therefore steered her into a bay under the lee of one of the islets, and there determined to await better weather. As he lay there, two great caracks of Genoa, homeward bound from Constantinople, found, not without difficulty, shelter from the tempest in the same bay. The masters of the caracks aspired the bark, and found out to whom she belonged. The fame of Landolfo and his vast wealth had already reached them, and had excited their natural cupidity and rapacity. They therefore determined to capture the bark which lay without means of escape. Part of their men, well armed with crossbows and other weapons, they accordingly sent ashore, so posting them that no one could leave the bark without being exposed to the bolts. The rest took to their boats, and rode up to the side of Landolfo's little craft, which in a little time, with little trouble and no loss or risk, they captured with all aboard her. They then cleared the bark of all she contained, allowing Landolfo, whom they set aboard one of the caracks, only a pitiful doublet, and sank her. Next day the wind shifted, and the caracks set sail on a westerly course, which they kept prosperously enough throughout the day. But towards evening a tempest arose, and the sea became very boisterous, so that the two ships were parted from one another. And such was the fury of the gale that the ship, aboard which was poor hapless Landolfo, was driven with prodigious force upon a shoal off the island of Kefalonia, and broke up and went to pieces like so much glass dashed against a wall. Wherefore the unfortunate wretches that were aboard her, launched amid the floating merchandise and chests and planks with which the sea was strewn, did as men commonly do in such a case, and though the night was of the murkiest and the sea rose and fell in mountainous surges, such as could swim sought to catch hold of whatever chance brought in their way. Among whom hapless Landolfo, who only the day before had again and again prayed for death rather than he should return home in such poverty, now seeing death imminent, was afraid. And like the rest laid hold of the first plank that came to hand, in the hope that if he could but avoid immediate drowning, God would in some way aid his escape. Gripping the beam with his legs as best he might, while wind and wave tossed him hither and thither, he contrived to keep himself afloat until broad day. When looking around him, he discerned nothing but clouds and sea and a chest, which, borne by the wave, from time to time drew nigh him to his extreme terror, before he apprehended it might strike against the plank and do him a mischief, and ever as it came near him he pushed it off with all the little force he had in his hand. But as it happened, a sudden gust of wind swept down upon the sea, and struck the chest with such force that it was driven against the plank on which Landolfo was, and upset it, and Landolfo went under the waves. Swimming with an energy begotten rather of fear than of strength, he rose to the surface, only to see the plank so far from him that, doubting he could not reach it, he made for the chest, which was close at hand, and resting his breast upon the lid, he did what he could to keep it straight with his arms. In this manner, tossed to and fro by the sea, without tasting food for not a morsel had he with him, and drinking more than he cared for, knowing not where he was, and seeing nothing but the sea, he remained all that day and the following night. The next day, as the will of God or the force of the wind so ordered, more like a sponge than ought else, but still with both hands holding fast by the edges of the chest, as we see those do that clutch aught to save themselves from drowning, he was at length born to the coast of the island of Corfu, where by chance a poor woman was just then scrubbing her kitchenware with sand and salt water to make it shine. The woman caught sight of him as he drifted surewards, but making out only a shapeless mass was at first startled, and shrieked and drew back. Landolfo was scarce able to see, and uttered no sound for his power of speech was gone. However, when the sea brought him close to the shore, she distinguished the shape of the chest, and gazing more intently, she first made out the arms strained over the chest, and then discerned the face, and divined the truth. So, prompted by pity, she went out a little way into the sea, which was then calm, took him by the hair of the head, and drew him to land, chest and all. Then, not without difficulty, she disengaged his hands from the chest, which she set on the head of a little girl, her daughter that was with her, carried him home like a little child, and set him in a bath, where she chafed and loved him with warm water, until the vital heat and some part of the strengths which he had lost being restored, she saw fit to take him out, and regale him with some good wine and comforts. Thus for some days she tended him as best she could, until he recovered his strength and knew where he was. Then, in due time, the good woman who had kept his chest safe gave it back to him, and bade him try his fortune. And also could not recall the chest, but took it when she brought it to him, thinking that, however slight its value, it must suffice for a few days' charges. He found it very light and quite lost hope. But when the good woman was out of doors, he opened it to see what was inside, and found there a great number of precious stones, some set, others unset. Having some knowledge of such matters, he saw at a glance that the stones were of great value. Wherefore, feeling that he was still not forsaken by God, he praised his name and quite recovered heart. But, having in a brief space of time been twice shrewdly hit by the bolts of fortune, he was apprehensive of a third blow, and deemed it meat to use much circumspection in conveying his treasure home. So he wrapped it up in rags as best he could, telling the good woman that he had no more use for the chest, but she might keep it if she wished, and give him a sack in exchange. This the good woman readily did, and he, thanking her as heartily as he could for the service she had rendered him, threw his sack over his shoulders, and, taking ship, crossed to Brindisi. Thence he made his way by the coast as far as Trani, where he found some of his townsfolk that were drapers, to whom he narrated all his adventures except that of the chest. They, in charity, gave him a suit of clothes, and lent him a horse and their escort as far as Ravello, wither he said he was minded to return. There, thanking God for bringing him safe home, he opened his sack, and, examining its contents with more care than before, found the number and fashion of the stones to be such that the sale of them at a moderate price or even less, would leave him twice as rich as when he left Ravello. So, having disposed of his stones, he sent a large sum of money to Corfu in recompense of the service done him by the good woman who had rescued him from the sea, and also to his friends at Trani, who would furnish him with the clothes. The residue he retained, and, making no more ventures in trade, lived and died in honourable estate. The Decameron by Giovanni Bucaccio, translated by J. M. Rigg. Day two, the eighteenth story. Andreu Tudaperoja comes to Naples to buy horses, meets with three serious adventures in one night, comes safe out of them all, and returns home with the ruby. Andolfo's find of stones, began Fiametta, on whom the narration now fell, has brought to my mind a story in which there are scarce fewer perilscapes than in Lauretta's story, but with this difference, that, instead of a course of perhaps several years, a single night, as you shall hear, sufficed for their occurrence. In Perugia, by what are once gathered, there lived a young man, Andreu Tudipietro, by name, a horse-dealer who, having learnt that horses were to be had cheap at Naples, put five hundred florins of gold in his purse, and, in company with some other merchants, went thither, never having been away from home before. On his arrival at Naples, which was on a Sunday evening, about Vespers, he learnt from his host that the fair would be held on the following morning. Thither, accordingly, he then repaired, and looked at many horses which pleased him much, and, cheapening them more and more, and failing to strike a bargain with any one, he, from time to time, being raw and unwary, drew out his purse of florins in view of all that came and went, to show that he meant business. While he was thus chaffering, and after he had shown his purse, the chance to come by a Sicilian girl, fair as fair could be, but ready to pleasure any man for a small consideration. He did not see her, but she saw him and his purse, and forthwith said to herself, Who would be in better luck than I if all those florins were mine? And so she passed on. With the girl was an old woman, also a Sicilian, who, when she saw Andreuccio, dropped behind the girl and ran towards him, making as if she would tenderly embrace him. The girl, observing this, said nothing, but stopped and waited a little way off for the old woman to rejoin her. Andreuccio turned as the old woman came up, recognised her, and greeted her very cordially, but time and place not permitting much converse, she left him, promising to visit him at his inn, and he resumed his chaffering, but bought nothing that morning. Her old woman's intimate acquaintance with Andreuccio had no more escaped the girl's notice than the contents of Andreuccio's purse, and with a view of devising, if possible, some way to make the money, either in whole or in part, her own, she began cautiously to ask the old woman who and whence he was, what he did there, and how she came to know him. The old woman gave her almost as much and as circumstantial information touching Andreuccio and his affairs, as he might have done himself, for she had lived a great while with his father, first in Sicily, and afterwards at Perugia. She likewise told the girl the name of his inn, and the purpose with which she had come to Naples. Thus fully armed with the names and all else that was needful for her to know touching Andreuccio's kiss and kin, the girl founded thereon her hopes of gratifying her cupidity, and forthwith devised a cunning stratagem to effect her purpose. Home she went, and gave the old woman work enough to occupy her all day that she might not be able to visit Andreuccio. Then, summoning to her aid a little girl whom she had well trained for such services, she sent her about Vespers to the inn where Andreuccio lodged. Arrived there, the little girl asked for Andreuccio of Andreuccio himself, who tranced to be just outside the gate. On his answering that he was the man, she took him aside and said, Sir, a lady of this country so please you, would faint and speak with you. Where to he listened with all his ears, and having a great conceit of his person, made up his mind that the lady was in love with him, as if there were never another handsome fellow in Naples but himself. So forthwith he replied that he would wait on the lady, and asked where and when it would be her pleasure to speak with him. Sir, replied the little girl, she expects you in her own house pleased to come. Leedon, then, I follow thee, said Andreuccio promptly, vouchsaving never a word to any in the inn. So the little girl guided him to her mistress's house, which was situated in a quarter the character of which may be inferred from its name, Evil Hole. Of this, however, he neither knew nor suspected ought, but supposing that the quarter was perfectly reputable and that he was going to see a sweet lady, strode carelessly behind the little girl into the house of her mistress, whom she summoned by calling out, Andreuccio is here. And Andreuccio then saw her advance to the head of the stairs to await his assent. She was tall, still in the freshness of her youth, very fair of face, and very richly and nobly clad. As Andreuccio approached, she descended three steps to meet him with open arms and clasped him round the neck. But for a while stood silent, as if from excess of tenderness. Then, bursting into a flood of tears, she kissed his brow, and in slightly broken accents said, Oh, Andreuccio, welcome, welcome, my Andreuccio! Quite lost and wandered to be the recipient of such caresses, Andreuccio could only answer, Madam, well met. Whereupon she took him by the hand, led him up into her saloon, and thence without another word into her chamber, which exhales through the blended fragrance of roses, orange blossoms, and other perfumes. He observed a handsome, curtained bed, dresses and plenty hanging, as is customary in that country, on pegs, and other appointments very fair and sumptuous, which cites, being strange to him, confirmed his belief that he was in the house of no other than a great lady. They sat down side by side on a chest at the foot of the bed, and thus she began to speak. Andreuccio, I cannot doubt that thou dost marvel both at the caresses which I bestow upon thee, and at my tears, seeing that thou knows me not, and maybe has never so much as heard my name. Wait but a moment, and thou shalt learn what perhaps will cause thee to marvel still more, to wit that I am thy sister, and I tell thee that since of God's special grace it is granted me to see one, albeit I would fancy all, of my brothers, before I die, I shall not meet death, when the hour comes, without consolation. But thou, Patrance, has never heard all of this, wherefore listen to what I shall say to thee. Pietro, my father, and thine, as I suppose thou mayest have heard, dwelt a long while a palermo, where his good heart and gracious bearing caused him to be, as he still is, much beloved by all that knew him, but by none was he loved so much as by a gentlewoman, afterwards my mother, then a widow, who, casting aside all respect for her father and brothers, I and her honour, grew so intimate with him that a child was born. Which child am I, thy sister, whom thou seized before thee? Shortly after my birth it so befell that Pietro must needs leave palermo and return to Perugia, and I, his little daughter, was left behind with my mother at palermo. Nor, so far as I have been able to learn, did he ever again bestow a thought upon either of us. Wherefore, to say nothing of the love which he should have borne me, his daughter, by no servant or woman of low degree, I should, were he not my father, gravely censure the ingratitude which he showed towards my mother, who, prompted by a most loyal love, committed her fortune and herself to his keeping, but so much as knowing who he was. But to what end? The wrongs of long ago are much more easily censured than redressed. Enough, that so it was. He left me a little girl at palermo, where, when I was grown to be almost as thou seest me, my mother, who was a rich lady, gave me in marriage to an honest gentleman, of the Ghirgenti family, who for love of my mother and myself, settled in palermo, and there, being a staunch gelf, entered into correspondence with our King Charles, which, being discovered by King Frederick before the time was ripe for action, we had perforced to flee from Sicily just when I was expecting to become the greatest lady that ever was in the island. So taking with us such few things as we could, few, I say, in comparison of the abundance which we possessed, we bated due to our estates and palaces, and found a refuge in this country, and such favour with King Charles that, in partial compensation for the losses which we had sustained on his account, he has granted us estates and houses and an ample pension, which he regularly pays to my husband and thy brother-in-law, as thou amazed yet see. In this manner I live here, but that I am blessed with the sight of thee, I ascribe entirely to the mercy of God, and no thanks to thee, my sweet brother. So saying she embraced him again, and, melting anew into tears, kissed his brow. This story, so Congress, so consistent in every detail, came trippingly and without the least hesitancy from her tongue. Andreucci remembered that his father had indeed lifted Palermo. He knew by his own experience the ways of young folk, how prone they are to love. He saw her melt into tears, he felt her embraces and sisterly kisses, and he took all she said for gospel. So when she had done, he answered, Madam, it should not surprise you that our marvels, seeing that ensouce, my father, for whatever course, said never a word of you and your mother, or if he did so, it came not to my knowledge, so that I knew no more of you than if you had not been, wherefore the lonelier I am here, and the less hope I had of such good luck, the better pleased I am to have found here my sister. And indeed I know not any man, however exalted his station, who ought not to be well pleased to have such a sister much more than I, who am but a petty merchant, but I pray you, resolve me of one thing, how came you to know that I was here? Then answered she, it was told me this morning by a poor woman, who is much about the house, because as she tells me she was long in the service of our father, both at Palermo and at Perugia, and that it seemed more fitting that thou shouldst come to see me at home than that I should visit thee at an inn, I had long ago sought thee out. She then began to inquire particularly after all his kinsfolk by name, and Andrioto, becoming ever more firmly persuaded of that which it was least for his good to believe, answered all her questions. Their conversation being thus prolonged, and the heat great, she had Greek wine and sweet-meats brought in, and gave Andrioto to drink. And when towards supper time, he made as if he would leave, she would in no wise suffer it, but feigning to be very much vexed, she embraced him, saying, Alas, now it is plain how little thou carest for me to think that thou art with thy sister whom thou seized for the first time, and in her own house, where thou shouldst have alighted on thine arrival, and thou wouldst feign depart hence to go to supper at an inn. Nay, but for certain thou shalt supper with me, and albeit to my great regret, my husband is not here, thou shalt see that I can do a lady's part in showing the honour. Andrioto, not knowing what else to say, replied, Sister, I care for you with all a brother's affection, but if I go not supper will await me all the evening at the inn, and I shall justly be taxed with discurtecy. Then said she, Blessed be God, there is even now in the house one by whom I can send word that they are not to expect thee at the inn, albeit thou wouldst far better discharge the debt of courtesy by sending word to thy friends, that they come here to supper, and then, if go thou must, you might all go in a body. Andrioto replied that he would have none of his friends that evening, but since she would have him stay, he would even do her the pleasure. She then made a show of sending word to the inn that they should not expect him at dinner. Much more talk followed, and then they sat down to a supper of many courses, splendidly served, which she cunningly protracted until nightfall, nor when they were risen from table and Andrioto was about to take his departure, would she by any means suffer it, saying that Naples was no place to walk about in after dark, least of all for a stranger, and that as she had sent word to the inn that they were not to expect him at supper, so she had done the like in regard of his bed. Believing what she said, and being, in his false confidence, overjoyed to be with her, he stayed. After supper there was matter enough for talk both various and prolonged, and when the night was in a measure spent, she gave up her own chamber to Andrioto, leaving him with a small boy to show him ought that he might have need of, while she retired with her women to another chamber. It was a very hot night, so no sooner was Andrioto alone that he stripped himself to his doublet, and drew off his stockings and laid them on the bed's head, and nature demanding a discharge of the surplus weight which he carried was in him, he asked the lad where this might be done, and was shown a door in a corner of the room, and told to go in there. Andrioto nothing doubting did so, but by ill luck set his foot on a plank which was detached from the joist at the further end, whereby down it went and he with it. By grace he took no hurt by the fall, though it was from some height, beyond sowsing himself from head to foot in the audio which filled the whole place, which, that you may the better understand what has been said, and that which is to follow, I will describe to you. A narrow and blind alley, such as we commonly see between two houses, was spanned by planks supported by joists on either side, and on the planks was the stool, of which planks that which fell with Andrioto was one. Now Andrioto, finding himself down there in the alley, felt calling on the lad, who as soon as he heard him fall had run off, and promptly let the lady know what had happened. She hide forthwith to her chamber, and after a hasty search found Andrioto's clothes and the money in them, for he foolishly thought to secure himself against risk by carrying it always on his person, and thus being possessed of the prize for which she had played her ruse, passing herself off as the sister of a man of Perugia, whereas she was rarely of Palermo, she concerned herself no further with Andrioto, except to close with all speed the door by which she had gone out when he fell. As the lad did not answer, Andrioto began to shout more loudly, but all to no purpose. Whereby his suspicions were aroused, and he began at last to perceive the trick that had been played upon him, so he climbed over a low wall that divided the alley from the street, and hide him to the door of the house, which he knew very well. There for a long while he stood shouting and battering the door till it shook on its hinges, but all again to no purpose. No doubt of his misadventure now lurking in his mind he felt bewailing himself saying, Alas! In how brief a time have I lost five hundred florins and a sister? With much more of the like sort. Then he recommended battering the door and shouting to such a tune that not a few of the neighbours were aroused, and finding the nuisance intolerable got up, and one of the lady's servant-girls presented herself at the window with a very sleepy air, and said angrily, Who knocks below there? Oh! said Andrioto, dost not know me? I am Andrioto, madam Fiora D'Aliso's brother. Good man! she rejoined, if thou hast had too much to drink, go sleep it off and come back to-morrow. I know not Andrioto, nor ought of the fantastic stuff thou hast. Prizy be gone, and be so good as to let us sleep in peace. How! said Andrioto, dost not understand what I say? For sure thou dost understand, but if Sicilian kinships are of such a sort that folk forget them so soon, at least return me my clothes, which are left within, and right glad shall I be to be off. Half- laughing she rejoined, good man, me thinks thou dost dream, and so saying she withdrew and closed the window. Andrioto by this time needed no further evidence of his wrongs, his wrath knew no bounds, and mortification well nigh converted it into frenzy. He was minded to exact by force, which he had failed to obtain by entreaties, and so, arming himself with a large stone, he renewed his attack upon the door with fury, dealing much heavier blows than at first. For not a few of the neighbours, whom he had already roused from their beds, set him down as an ill-conditioned rogue, and his story as a mere fiction intended to annoy the good woman. And resenting the din, which he now made, came to their windows, just as, when a stranger dog makes his appearance, all the dogs of the quarter will run to bark at him, and called out in chorus, it is a gross affront to come at this time of night to the house of the good woman with this silly story. See, good man, let us sleep in peace, be gone in God's name, and if thou hast a score to settle with her, come to morrow, but a truce to thy pestering to-night. Emboldened perhaps by these words, a man who lurked within the house, the good woman's bully, whom Andriyutru had as yet neither seen nor heard, showed himself at the window, and said in a gruff voice and savage, menacing tone, Who is below there? Andriyutru looked up in the direction of the voice, and saw standing at the window, yawning and rubbing his eyes, as if he had just been roused from his bed, or at any rate from deep sleep. A fellow with a black and matted beard, who, as far as Andriyutru's means of judging went, bade fair to prove a most redoubtable champion. It was not without fear, therefore, that he replied, I am a brother of the lady who is within. The bully did not wait for him to finish his sentence, but addressing him in a much sterner tone than before, called out, I know not why I come not down and give thee play with my cudgel, whilst thou givest me sign of life, ass, tedious to driveler that thou must needs be and drunken sought, thus to disturb our night's rest. Which said he withdrew, and closed the window. Some of the neighbours who best knew the bully's quality gave Andriyutru fair words. For God's sake, said they, good man, take thyself off, stay not here to be murdered, for best for thee to go. These cancels, which seemed to be dictated by charity, reinforced the fear which the voice and aspect of the bully had inspired in Andriyutru, who, thus despairing of recovering his money, and in the deepest of dumps, set his face towards the quarter whence in the day-time he had blindly followed the little girl, and began to make his way back to the inn. But so noisome was the stench which he admitted, that he resolved to turn aside and take a bath in the sea. So he bore leftward, up a street called Ruga Katalana, and was on his way towards the steep of the city, when by chance he saw two men coming towards him, bearing a lantern, and fearing that they might be patrols or other men who might do him a mischief, he stole away and hid himself in a dismantled house, to avoid them. The house, however, was presently entered by the two men, just as if they had been guided thither, and one of them having disburdened himself of some iron tools which he carried on his shoulder, they both began to examine them, passing meanwhile diverse comments upon them. While they were thus occupied, what, said one, means this? Such a stench as I never before did smell the like. So saying he raised the lantern a little, whereby they had a view of hapless Andriyucho, and asked in amazement, Who is there? Whereupon Andriyucho was at first silent, but when they flashed the light close upon him, and asked him what he did there in such a filthy state, he told them all that had befallen him. Nothing about to fix the place where it occurred, they said one to another, of a short it was the house of Skaraburnabutafokko. Then said one, turning to Andriyucho, Good man, albeit thou hast lost thy money, thou hast cause enough to praise God that thou hadst the luck to fall, for hadst thou not fallen, be sure that no sooner would thou sleep, that thou hadst been knocked on the head, and lost not only thy money, but thy life. And what boots it now to be wailed thee? Thou mightest as soon pluck a star from the firmament, as recover a single denier. Nay, tis as much as thy life is worth, if he do but hear that thou breathest a word of the affair. The two men then held a short consultation, at the close of which they said, Lo now, we are sorry for thee, and so we make the affair offer. If thou wilt join with us in a little matter which we have in hand, we doubt not, but thy share of the gain will greatly exceed what thou hast lost. Andriyucho, being now desperate, answered that he was ready to join them. Namessa Filippo Minutolo, Archbishop of Naples, had that day been buried with a ruby on his finger, worth over five hundred florins of gold, besides other ornaments of extreme value. The two men were minded to despoil the Archbishop of his fine trappings, and imparted their design to Andriyucho, who, cupidity getting the better of caution, approved it, and so they all three set forth. But as they were on their way to the cathedral, Andriyucho gave out so rank and odour, that one said to the other, Can we not contrive that he somehow wash himself a little, that he stink not so shrewdly? Why, yes, said the other, we are now close to a well, which is never without the pulley and the large bucket. It is but a step thither, and we will wash him out of hand. Arrived at the well, they found that the rope was still there, but the bucket had been removed, so they determined to attach him to the rope, and lower him into the well, there to wash himself, which done he was to jerk the rope, and they would draw him up. Lowered accordingly he was, but just as, now washing, he ejected the rope. It so happened that the company of patrols, being thirsty, because it was a hot night, and some rogue had led them a pretty dance, came to the well to drink. The two men fled unobserved, as soon as they caught sight of the newcomers, who parched with thirst, laid aside their bucklers, arms and circuits, and fell to hauling on the rope, supposing that it bore the bucket full of water. Then therefore they saw Andriotro, as he neared the brink of the well, loose the rope, and clutch the brink with his hands, they were stricken with his sudden terror, and without uttering a word let go the rope, and took to flight with all the speed they could make. Whereot Andriotro marveled mightily, and had he not kept tight grip on the brink of the well, he would certainly have gone back to the bottom, and hardly have escaped grievous hurt or death. Still greater was his astonishment, when, fairly landed on Teraferma, he found the patrol's arms lying there, which he knew had not been carried by his comrades. He felt a vague dread, he knew not why, he bewailed once more his evil fortune, and without venturing to touch the arms, he left the well, and wondered he knew not wither. As he went, however, he fell in with his two comrades, now returning to draw him out of the well, who no sooner saw him than in utter amazement they demanded who had hauled him up. Andriotro answered that he knew not, and then told them in detail how it had come about, and what he had found beside the well. They laughed as they apprehended the circumstances, and told him why they had fled, and who they were that had hauled him up. Then, without further parlay, for it was now midnight, they hide them to the cathedral. They had no difficulty in entering and finding the tomb, which was a magnificent structure of marble, and with their eye-in-implements they raised the lid, albeit it was very heavy, to a height sufficient to allow a man to enter, and propped it up. This done, a dialogue ensued, who shall go in, said one, not I, said the other, nor I, rejoined his companion, let Andriotro go in. That will not I, said Andriotro, whereupon both turned upon him and said, how, thou wilt not go in? By God, if thou ghost not in, we will give thee that over the pate with one of these iron crow-bars that thou shalt drop down dead. Terror stricken, into the tomb Andriotro went, saying to himself as he did so, these men will have me go in, that they may play a trick upon me, when I have handed everything up to them, and I am sweating myself to get out of the tomb, they will be off about their business, and I shall be left with nothing for my pains. So he determined to make sure of his own part first, and be sinking him of the precious ring of which he had heard them speak, as soon as he had completed the descent he drew the ring off the Archbishop's finger, and put it on his own. He then handed up, one by one, the crozier, miter and gloves, and other of the Archbishop's trappings, stripping him to his shirt. Which done he told his comrades that there was nothing more. They insisted that the ring must be there and bade him search everywhere. This he feigned to do, ejaculating from time to time that he found it not, and thus he kept them a little while in suspense. But they, who were in their way as cunning as he, kept on exhorting him to make a careful search, and seizing their opportunity, withdrew the prop that supported the lid of the tomb, and took to their heels, leaving him there a close prisoner. He will readily conceive how Andriotro behaved when he understood his situation. More than once he applied his head and shoulders to the lid, and sought with might and man to heave it up, but all his efforts were fruitless, so that at last, overwhelmed with anguish, he fell in his swoon on the corpse of the Archbishop, and whether of the twain were the most lifeless, Andriotro or the Archbishop, it would have puzzled an observer to determine. When he came to himself he burst into a torrent of tears, seeing now nothing in store for him but either to perish there of hunger and fetid odours beside the corpse and among the worms, or should the tomb be earlier opened to be taken and hanged as a thief. These most lugubrious meditations were interrupted by a sound of persons walking and talking in the church. They were evidently a numerous company, and to their purpose, as Andriotro surmised, was the very same with which he and his comrades had come thither, whereby his terror was mightily increased. Presently the folk opened the tomb, and propped up the lid, and then fell to disputing as to who should go in. One was willing, and the contention was protracted, but at length one, it was a priest, said, Of what are you feared? Think ye to be eaten by him? Nay, the dead eat not the living. I will go in myself. So saying, he propped his breast upon the edge of the lid, through his head back, and thrust his legs within, that he might go down feet foremost. On sight whereof Andriotro started to his feet, and seizing hold of one of the priest's legs, made as if he would drag him down, which caused the priest to utter a prodigious yell, and bundle himself out of the tomb with no small celerity. The rest took to flight in a panic, as if a hundred thousand devils were at their heels. The tomb being thus left open, Andriotro, the ring still on his finger, sprang out. The way by which he had entered the church served him for egress, and roaming at random, he arrived towards daybreak at the coast. Diverging thence, he came by chance upon his inn, where he found that his host and his comrades had been anxious about him all night. When he told them all that had fallen him, they joined with the host in advising him to leave Naples at once. He accordingly did so, and returned to Perugia, having invested in a ring, the money with which he had intended to buy horses. End of Day 2, the Eighteenth Story Day 2, the Sixth 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 Ana Simon. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by GM Rigg. Day 2, the Sixth Story. Madame Beritola loses two sons, is found with two kids on an island, goes thence to Lunigiana, where one of her sons takes service with her master and lies with his daughter, for which he is put in prison. Cicely rebels against King Charles, the son is recognized by the mother, marries the master's daughter, and his brother being discovered is reinstated in great honour. The ladies and the young men alike had many hearty love over Friamita's narrative of Andreuccio's adventures, which ended Emilia, at the Queen's command, thus began. Grave and greavers are the vicissitudes with which fortune makes us acquainted, and as discourse of such matter serves to awaken our minds, which are so readily lulled to sleep by her flatteries, I deem it worthy of attentive hearing by all whether they enjoy her favour or endure her frown, in that it ministers counsel to the one sword and consolation to the other. Wherefore, albeit great matters have preceded it, I mean to tell you a story not less true than touching, of adventures whereof the issue was indeed felicitous, but the antecedent bitterness so long drawn out, that scarce can I believe that it was ever sweetened by ensuing happiness. Dearest ladies, you must know that after the death of the Emperor Frederick II the Crown of Cicely passed to Manfred, whose favour was enjoyed in the highest degree by a gentleman of Naples, Arigeto Capecce by name, who had to wife Madonna Beritola Caricciola, a fair and gracious lady, likewise a Neapolitan. Now, when Manfred was conquered and slain by King Charles I at Benevento, and the whole realm transferred its allegiance to the conqueror, Arigeto, who was then governor of Cicely, no sooner received the tidings than he prepared for instant flight, knowing that little reliance was to be placed on the fleeting faith of the Sicilians and not being minded to become a subject of his master's enemy. But as Sicilians, having intelligence of his plans, he and many other friends and servants of King Manfred were surprised, taken prisoners and delivered over to King Charles, to whom the whole island was soon after its surrendered. In this signal reversal of the wanted course of things, Madame Beritola, knowing not what was become of Arigeto, and from the past ever-occurring future evil, lest she should suffer foul dishonour, abandoned all that she possessed, and, with a son of perhaps eight years, just Friday by name, being also pregnant, fled in a boat to Lepari, where she gave birth to another male child, whom she named Outcaste. Then, with her sons and a hired nurse, she took ship for Naples, intending there to rejoin her family. Miss, however, fell out otherwise than she expected, for by stress of weather, the ship was carried out of her cools to the desert island of Ponsa, where they put in to a little bay until such time as they might safely continue their voyage. Madame Beritola landed with the rest on the island, and, leaving the Monde, sought out a lonely and secluded spot, and there abandoned herself to melancholy brooding on the loss of her dear Arigeto. While thus she spent her days in solitary preoccupation with her grief, it chanced that a galley of Corsairs swooped down upon the island, and, before either the mariners or any other folk were aware of their peril, made an easy capture of them all and sailed away. So that, when Madame Beritola, her wailing for that day, ended, returned, as was her want, to the shore to solace herself with the sight of her sons, she found none there. At first she was lost in wonder, then, with a certain suspicion of the truth, she bent her eyes seaward, and there saw the galley still at no great distance, towing the ship in her wake, thus apprehending beyond all manner of doubt that she had lost her sons as well as her husband, and that, alone, desolate and destitute, she might not hope that any of her lost ones would ever be restored to her. She fell down on the shore in a swoon, with the names of her husband and sons upon her lips. None was there to administer cold water or ore else that might recall her true empowers. Her animal spirits might even wonder whether, soever they would, had their sweet will. Strength, however, did at last return to her poor exhausted frame, and there with tears and lamentations, as, plaintively repeating her sons' names, she roamed in quest of them from cavern to cavern. Long time she sought them thus, but when she saw that her labour was in vain, and that night was closing in, her hope, she knew not why, began to return, and with it some degree of anxiety on her own account. Wherefore she left the shore, and returned to the cavern where she had been warned to indulge her plaintive mood. She passed the night in no small fear, and indescribable anguish. The new day came, and, as she had not subbed, she was feigned after thirst to appease her hunger, as best she could, by a breakfast of herbs. This done she wept, and began to ruminate on her future way of life. While thus engaged she observed a she-goat come by, and go into an adjacent cavern, and after a while come forth again, and go into the wood. Thus roused from her reverie she got up, went into the cavern from which the she-goat had issued, and there saw two kids, which might have been born that very day, and seemed to her the sweetest and the most delicious things in the world. And having, by reason of a recent delivery, milk still within her, she took them up tenderly, and set them to her breast. They, nothing loath, sucked at her teats, as if she'd been their own dam, and thenceforth made no distinction between her and the dam, which caused the lady to feel that she had found company in the desert, and so, living on herbs and water, weeping as often as she bethought her, of her husband and sons and her past life, she disposed herself to live and die there, and become no less familiar with the she-goat than with her young. The gentle lady, thus leading the life of a wild creature, it chanced that after some months, stress of weather brought a peace and ship to the very same bay in which she had landed. The ship lay there for several days, having on board a gentleman, Curado no Malispini by name, of the same family as the Marquis, who, with his noble and most devout lady, was returning home from a pilgrimage, having visited all the holy places in the realm of Apulia. To beguile the tedium of the sojourn, Curado, with his lady, some servants and his dogs, set forth one day upon a tour through the island. As they neared the place where Madame Beritola dwelt, Curado's dogs, on view of the two kids, which, now of a fair size, were grazing, gave chase. The kids, pursued by the dogs, made straight for Madame Beritola's cavern. She, seeing what was to it, started to her feet, caught up a stick, and drove the dogs back. Curado and his lady, coming up after the dogs, gazed the Madame Beritola, now tanned and lean and hairy, with wonder, which she more than reciprocated. At her request, Curado called off the dogs, and then he and his lady besought her again and again to say who she was and what she did there. So she told them all about herself, her rank, her misfortunes, and the savage life which she was minded to lead. Curado, who had known Argetto Capecci very well, was moved to tears by compassion, and exhausted all his eloquence to induce her to change her mind, offering to escort her home, or to take her to live with him in honourable state as his sister, until God should vouchsave her a kindlier fortune. The lady, declining all his offers, Curado left her with his wife, whom he bade see that food was brought with her, and let Madame Beritola, who was all in rags, have one of her own dresses to wear, and do all that she could to persuade her to go with them. So the gentle lady stayed with Madame Beritola, and after condoling with her at large on her misfortunes, had food and clothing brought to her, and with the greatest difficulty in the world prevailed upon her to eat and dress herself. At last, after much beseeching, she induced her to depart from her oft-declared intention never to go where she might meet any that knew her, and accompany them to Lunigiana, taking with her the two kids and the dam, which latter had in the meantime returned, and to the gentle lady's great surprise had greeted Madame Beritola with the utmost affection. So, with the return of fair weather, Madame Beritola, taking with her the dam and the two kids, embarked with Curado and his lady on their ship, being called by them, for her true name was not to be known of all, Cavriola, and the wind holding fair, they speedily reached the mouth of the magra, and, landing, hide them to Curado's castle, where Madame Beritola abode with Curado's lady in the quality of her maid, serving her well and faithfully, wearing with those weeds, and feeding and tending her kids with a sitious and loving care. The corsairs, who not aspiring Madame Beritola had left her at Ponza when they took the ship on which she had come thither, had made a call to Genema, taking with them all the other folk. On their arrival, the owners of the galley shared the booty, and so it happened that, as part thereof, Madame Beritola's nurse and her two boys, felt a lot of one Messer Guasparino Doria, who sent all three to his house, being minded to keep them there as domestic slaves. The nurse, beside herself with grief at the loss of her mistress and their woeful plight in which she found herself and her two charges, shed many a bitter tear, but, seeing that they were unavailing, and that she and the boys were slaves together, she, having for all her low estate her share of wit and good sense, made it her first care to comfort them. Then, regardless of the condition to which they were reduced, she bethought her that if the lads were recognised, it would very likely be injurious to them. So, still hoping that some time or another, fortune would change her mood, and they be able, if living, to regain their lost estate, she resolved to let none know who they were, until she saw a fitting occasion, and accordingly, whenever she was questioned thereof by any, she gave them out as her own children. The name of the elder she changed from Giusefredi to Dianato di Procidae. The name of the younger she did not think it worth while to change. She spared no pains to make Giusefredi understand the reason why she had changed his name, and the risk which he might run if he were recognised. This she impressed upon him, not once only but many times, and the boy, who was apt to learn, followed the instructions of the wise nurse with perfect exactitude. So, the two boys, ill-clad and worse shot, continued with the nurse in Mesa Guasparino's house for two years, patiently performing all kinds of menial offices. But Dianato, being now sixteen years old, and of a spirit that consorted ill with servitude, brooked not the basins of his lot, and dismissed himself from Mesa Guasparino's service by getting aboard a galley bound for Alexandria, and travelled far and wide, and fared never the better. In the course of his wanderings he learned that his father, whom he had supposed to be dead, was still living, but kept in prison under watch and ward by King Charles. He was grown a tall, handsome young man when, perhaps three or four years after he had given Mesa Guasparino the slip, wary of roaming and all but despairing of his fortune, he came to Lunigiana, and by chance took service with Curado Malaspini, who found him handy, and was well pleased with him. His mother, who was in attendance on Curado's lady, he seldom saw, and never recognized her, nor she him. So much had time changed both from their former aspect since they last met. While Dianato was thus in the service of Curado, it fell out by the death of Niccolò da Crignano, that his widow, Spina, Curado's daughter, returned to her father's house. Very fair she was, and lovable, her age not more than sixteen years, and so it was that she saw Dianato with favour, and he her, and both fell ardently in love with one another. Their passion was early gratified, but several months elapsed before any detected its existence. Wherefore, growing overbold, they began to dispense with the precautions which such an affair demanded. So, one day, as they walked with others through a wood, where the trees grew fair and close, the girl and Dianato left the rest of the company some distance behind, and, thinking that they were well in advance, found a fair pleasant skirt in with trees and carpeted with abundance of grass and flowers, and fell to solace themselves after the manner of lovers. Long time they thus dallied, though such was their delight that all too brief it seemed to them, and so it befell that they were surprised first by the girl's mother, and then by Curado. Pain beyond measure by what he had seen, Curado, without assigning any cause, had them both arrested by three of his servants and taken in chains to one of his castles, wherein a frenzy of passionate wrath he left them, resolved to put them to an ignominious death. The girl's mother was also very angry, and deemed her daughter's fall deserving of the most rigorous chastisement. But, when by one of Curado's chance words she divined the doom which he destined for the guilty pair, she could not reconcile herself to it, and hasted to intercede with her angry husband, beseeching him to refrain the impetuous wrath which would hurry him in his old age to murder his daughter and imbue his hands in the blood of his servant, and vent it in some other way, as by close confinement and duress, or by the culprits should be brought to repent them of their fault in tears. Thus, and with much more to the like effect, the devout lady urged her suit, and at length prevailed upon her husband to abandon his murderous design. Wherefore, he commanded that the pair should be confined in separate prisons, and closely guarded, and kept short of food, and in sore discomfort, until further order, which was accordingly done, and the life which the captives led, their endless tears, their fasts of inordinate duration, may be readily imagined. Yanotto and Spina had languished in this sorry plight for full a year, entirely ignored by Curado, when in concert with Messaglian di Porcida, King Peter of Aragon raised the rebellion in the island of Sicily, and recited it from King Charles, where at Curado, being a gibbeline, was overjoyed. Hearing the tidings from one of his warders, Yanotto heaved a great sigh, and said, Alas, fourteen years have I been a wanderer upon the face of the earth, looking for no other than this very event, and now that my hopes of happiness may be forever frustrated, it has come to pass only to find me in prison, whence I may never think to issue a life. How, said the warder, what signified to thee these doings of these mighty monarchs, what part hath thou in Sicily? Yanotto answered, this as if my heart were breaking, when I bethinked me of my father and what part he had in Sicily. I was but a little lad when I fled the island, but yet I remember him as its governor in the time of King Manfred. And who then was thy father? demanded the water. His name rejoined Yanotto. I need no longer scruple to disclose, seeing that I find myself in the very strait which I hope to avoid by concealing it. He was, and still is, if he live, Argetto Capecce, and my name is not Yanotto, but Eusfredi, and I doubt not, but where I once free and back in Sicily, I might yet hold a very honourable position in the island. The worthy man asked no more questions, but, as soon as you found opportunity, told what he had learnt to Corrado, who, albeit he made light of it in the warder's presence, repaired to Madame Beritola and asked her in a pleasant manner whether she had heard by Argetto a son named Eusfredi. The lady answered in tears that if the elder of the two sons were living, such would be his name, and his age twenty-two years. This inclined Corrado to think that Yanotto and Eusfredi were indeed one and the same, and it occurred to him that if so it were, he might at once show himself most merciful and blot out his daughter's shame and his own by giving her to him in marriage. Wherefore he sent for Yanotto privily, and questioned him in detail, touching his past life, and finding by indubitable evidence that he was indeed Eusfredi, son of Argetto Capecce, he said to him, Yanotto, thou knows the wrong which thou has done me in the person of my daughter, what and how great it is, seeing that I use thee well and kindly, and thou shouldst therefore, like a good servant, have shown thyself jealous of my honour and zealous in my interest, and many there are who, hath thou treated them as thou has treated me, would have caused thee to die an ignominious death, which my clemency would not brook. But now, as it is even so as thou sayest, and thou art of gentle blood by both thy parents, I am minded to put an end to thy sufferings as soon as thou wilt, releasing thee from the captivity in which thou languishest, and setting thee in a happy place, and reinstating at once thy honour and my own. Thy intimacy with Spina, albeit shameful to both, was yet prompted by love. Spina, as thy knowest, is a widow, and her dower is ample and secure. What her breeding is, and her fathers and her mothers, thou knowest, of thy present condition I say not. Wherefore, when thou wilt, I am consenting that, having me with this honour thy friend, she become with honour thy wife, and that, so long as it seem good to thee, thou tarry here with her and me as my son. Captivity had wasted Guernotto's flesh, but had in no degree impaired the generosity of spirit which he derived from his ancestry, or the whole hearted love which he bore his lady. So, albeit he ardently desired that which Corrado offered, and knew that he was in Corrado's power, yet, even as his magnanimity prompted, so unswervingly he made answer. Corrado, neither ambition nor cupidity, nor ought else, did ever beguile me to any treacherous machination against either thy person or thy property. Thy daughter I loved, and love, and shall ever love, because I deem her worthy of my love. And if I dealt with her after a fashion which to the mechanic mind seems hardly honourable, I did but commit that fault which is ever congenial to youth, which can never be eradicated, so long as youth continues, and which, if the aged would but remember that they were once young, and would measure the delinquencies of others by their own, and their own by those of others, would not be deemed so grave as thou, and many others depicted. And what I did, I did as a friend, not as an enemy. That which thou offered, I have ever desired, and should long ago have sought, had I supposed that thou wouldst grant it, and will be the more grateful to me in proportion to the death of my despair. But if thy intent be not such as thy words import, feed me not with vain hopes, but send me back to prison, there to suffer whatever thou mayst be pleased to inflict, nor doubt that even as I love Spina, so for love of her shall I ever love thee, though thou do thy worst, and still hold thee in reverent regard. Curado marveled to hear him thus speak, and being assured of his magnanimity and the fervour of his love, held him the more dear, wherefore he rose, embraced and kissed him, and without further delay, bade privilege bring thee the Spina, who left her prison wasted and when and weak, and so changed that she seemed almost another woman than of your, even as Guienotto was scarce his former self. Then and there in Curado's presence they plighted their troth, according to our custom of his puzzles, and some days afterwards Curado, having in the meantime provided all things meat for their convenience and solace, yet so as that none should surmise what had happened, deemed it now time to gladden their mothers with the news. So he sent for his lady and Cavriola, and thus addressing first Cavriola, he spoke, What would you say, madam, were I to restore you your elder son as the husband of one of my daughters? Cavriola answered, I would say that were it possible for you to strengthen the bond which attaches me to you, than assuredly you had so done, in that you restored to me that which I cherished more tenderly than myself, and in such a guise as in some measure to renew within me the hope which I'd lost, more I could not say. And so weeping she was silent. Then, turned to his lady, Curado said, And thou, madam, what would thou think if I were to present thee with such a son-in-law? A son-in-law, she answered, that was not of gentle blood, but a mere chiral, so he pleased you, would well content me. So returned Curado, I hope within a few days to gladden the hearts of both of you. He waited only until the two young folk had recovered their wanted mean, and were glad in a manner befitting their rank. Then, addressing Cusfredi, he said, Would it not add to thy joy to see thy mother here? I dare not hope, returned Cusfredi, that she had survived calamities and sufferings such as hers, but were it so, great indeed would be my joy, and nonetheless that by her counsel I might be aided to the recovery, in great measure, of my lost heritage in Sicily. Whereupon Curado caused both the ladies to come thither, and presented to them the bride. The gladness with which they both greeted her was a wonder to behold, and no less great was their wonder at the benign inspiration that had prompted Curado to unite her in wetlock with guionato, whom Curado's words caused Baramperitola to survey with some attention. A hidden spring of memory was thus touched. She recognized in the man the lineaments of her boy, and awaiting no further evidence she ran with open arms and threw herself upon his neck. No word did she utter, for very excess of maternal tenderness and joy. But every avenue of sense closed, she fell as if bereft of life within her son's embrace. Guionato, who'd often seen her in the castle, and never recognized her, marveled not a little, but nevertheless it at once flashed upon him that was his mother, and blaming himself for his past inadvertence he took her in his arms, and wept, and tenderly kissed her. With gentle solicitude, Curado's lady and Spina came to her aid, and restored her suspended animation with cold water and other remedies. She then, with many tender and endearing words, kissed him a thousand times or more, which tokens of her love he received with a look for a verential acknowledgment. Thrice, nay, a fourth time, with his glad and gracious greetings exchanged, and joyful indeed were they that witnessed them, and hearkened while mother and son compared their past adventures. Then Curado, who had already announced his new alliance to his friends, and received their felicitations, proceeded to give order for the celebration of the event, with all becoming gaiety and splendor. As he did so, Giosferi said to him, Curado, you have long given my mother honourable entertainment, and on me you have conferred many boons, wherefore that you may fill up the measure of your kindness. Tis now my prayer that you will be pleased to gladden my mother and my marriage feast, and me, with the presence of my brother, now in servitude in the house of Mesa Guasparino Doria, who, as I've already told you, made prize of both him and me, and that then you send someone to Sicily, who shall make himself thoroughly acquainted with the circumstances and condition of the country, and find out how it has fared with my father Arigetto, whether he be alive or dead, and if alive, in what circumstances, and being thus fully informed, return to us with the tidings. Curado assented, and forthwith sent most trusty agents both to Genoa and to Sicily. So, in due time, an envoy arrived at Genoa, and made instant suit to Guasparino, on Curado's part, for the surrender of outcast and the nurse, setting forth in detail all that had passed between Curado and Guasfredi and his mother. Whereet Mesa Guasparino was mightily astonished, and said, of assurity there is not that, being able, I would not do to pleasure Curado, and true it is that I have had in my house for these fourteen years the boy whom thou dost now demand of me, and his mother, and gladly will I surrender them. But tell Curado from me to beware of excessive credulity, and to put no faith in the idle tales of Gianotta, or Guasfredi, as I say as he calls himself, whose by no means so guileous as he supposes. Then, having provided for the honourable entertainment of the worthy envoy, he sent privilege for the nurse, and cautiously sounded her as to the affair. The nurse had heard of the revolt of Sicily, and had learned that Argetto was still alive. She therefore banished fear, and told Mesa Guasparino the whole story, and explained to him the reasons why she had acted as she had done. Finding that what she said accorded very well with what he had learned from Curado's envoy, he inclined to credit the story, and most astutely probing the matter in diverse ways, and always finding fresh grounds for confidence. He reproached himself for the sorry manner in which he had treated the boy, and by way of amends gave him one of his own daughters, a beautiful girl of eleven years, to wife, with a dowry suited to Argetto's rank, and celebrated their nuptials with great festivity. He then brought the boy and girl, Curado's envoy, and the nurse, in a well-armed guilead to Loici, being there met by Curado, who had a castle not far off, where great preparations had been made for their entertainment, and there, accordingly, he went with his whole company. What cheer the mother had of her son, the brothers of one another, and all the three of the faithful nurse? What cheer Mesa Guasparino and his daughter had of all, and all of them? And what cheer all had of Curado and his lady, and their sons and their friends, words may not describe, wherefore, my ladies, I leave it to your imagination. And that their joy might be full, God who, when he gives, gives most abundantly, added the glad tidings that Argetto Capetce was alive and prosperous. For, when in the best of spirits the ladies and gentlemen had set them down to feast, and they were yet at the first course, the envoy from Sicily arrived, and among other matters reported that, no sooner had the interaction broken out in the island, than the people hide them in hot haste to the prison where Argetto was kept in confinement by King Charles, and dispatching the guards brought him forth, and knowing him to be a capital enemy to King Charles, made him their captain, and under his command fell upon and massacred the French, whereby he had won the highest place in the favour of King Peter, who had granted him restitution of all his estates and honours, so that he was now both prosperous and mighty. The envoy added that Argetto had received him with every token of honour, had manifested the utmost delight on hearing of his lady and son, of whom no tidings had reached him since his arrest, and had sent, to bring them home, a brigantine with some gentleman aboard, whose arrival might hourly be expected. The envoy and the good news which he brought were heartily welcome, and presently Curado, with some of his friends, encountered the gentlemen who came from Madame Beritola and Guisfredi, and saluted them cordially, invited them to his feast, which was not yet half done. Joy unheard of was depicted on the faces of the lady, of Guisfredi, and of all the rest as they greeted them. Nor did they, on their part, take their places at the table before, as best they might, they had conveyed to Curado and his lady Argetto's greetings and grateful acknowledgments of the honour which they had conferred upon his lady and his son, and had placed Argetto to the utmost of his power entirely at their service. Then, turning to Messagras Parino, of whose kindness Argetto surmised nothing, they said that they were very sure that when he learned the boon which outcasts had received at his hands, he would pay him the like and an even greater tribute of gratitude. This speech ended, they feasted most joyously with the brides and bridegrooms. So passed the day, the first of many which Curado devoted to honouring his son-in-law and his other intimates, both kinsfolk and friends. The time of festivity ended, Madame Beritola and Guisfredi and the rest felt that they must leave. So, taking Spina with them, they parted, not without many tears, from Curado and his lady in Guasparino, and went aboard the brigantine, which wafted by a prosperous wind soon brought them to Sicily. At Palermo they were met by Argetto, who received them all, ladies and sons alike, with such cheer as it were vain to attempt to describe. There it is believed that they all lived long and happily, and in amity with God, being not unmindful of the blessings which he had conferred upon them. End of day two, the sixth story.