“A Leonardo! tare an ouns!”
“Oh, God, Oh, God, my husband!”
“Oh, God, Oh, God, my wife!”
“My father!”
“My precious!” [Tableau.]
Count Luigi bound his usurping brother hand and foot. 
WICKED BROTHER. The practiced knights from Palestine made holyday sport of carving the awkward men-at-arms into chops and steaks. The victory was complete. Happiness reigned. The knights all married the daughter. Joy! wassail! finis!
“But what did they do with the wicked brother?”
“Oh nothing—only hanged him on that iron hook I was speaking of. By the chin.”
“As how?”
“Passed it up through his gills into his mouth.”
“Leave him there?”
“Couple of years.”
“Ah—is—is he dead?”
“Six hundred and fifty years ago, or such a matter.”
“Splendid legend—splendid lie—drive on.”
We reached the quaint old fortified city of Bergamo, the renowned in history, some three-quarters of an hour before the train was ready to start. The place has thirty or forty thousand inhabitants and is remarkable for being the birthplace of harlequin. When we discovered that, that legend of our driver took to itself a new interest in our eyes.
Rested and refreshed, we took the rail happy and contented. I shall not tarry to speak of the handsome Lago di Gardi; its stately castle that holds in its stony bosom the secrets of an age so remote that even tradition goeth not back to it;
