So I went back to bed again quietly, and dipping my head into my pillow saw in glittering great letters that deepened into red like blood, MALEDICTUS SIT THESAURUS. And the night was full of dreams, for all that I hadn't heard the story; for the strange curse rang like a cry through my imagination, wailing menacingly like an echo from another world; and ever it seemed that a coffined corpse struggling frenziedly in its prison shook a fleshless fist at me, and glared at me from hollow eyeless sockets, repeating and repeating a terrible threat which I couldn't understand though I strained my ears to listen. And though the earth was between us I could see the writhing figure tearing at the stifling tangles of its shroud, chattering insanely. Then suddenly I was the corpse myself; and I knew I was dead, but the grave-clothes were choking me; and with an agonized effort I heaved at the suffocating obstruction, and woke panting and puffing with the blankets about my face. I threw them off; and the room was white with morning. CHAPTER VIII PICARDINO Running downstairs I was aware of an unaccustomed music in the house. A high, vibrating voice was trilling and quavering to some twanging instrument; and breaking into the kitchen I saw a merry brown little fellow, with a ring of black stubbly beard about his lips, fingering what I afterwards learnt was a guitar, and singing with the abandonment of a bird. Without stopping his song he rolled a vivacious dark eye on me, winking with such a knowing merriment that I beamed my broadest at him, watching him with absorbed interest. He finished his song and started speaking in a breath, chattering in a pretty musical broken English, calling for wine, and pledging the ladees of Italee, generally giving us to understand that Italy was the land for a roving eye and a merry heart, where the gerrls knew the meaning of love. As he spoke he sipped at his wine, smacking his lips, and touching his guitar with nervous fingers; and before any one had time to take up the dialogue he was off on another song, throwing himself into it with a humorous passion that set my blood tingling in my veins. Before he had finished, my father came in, and as the song closed applauded heartily with, "Brava! Brava!" The Italian seemed gratified, and swept him an elaborate bow; but my father held out his hand to the guitar, saying "Ah, the lovely strings; my fingers have itched for them for years." The Italian hastily unslung the gaudy instrument from his shoulders, and handed it to my father eagerly, saying, "Ah, an arteest! He ees my brotherr. He shall say he have play on the gueetar of Picardino. He will remember me, yes? Picardino." And before my father could prevent him he had embraced him with fervour, greatly to the amusement of the host and the few early guests.