She said something to him in English, and went away and left him. He sat and stared about him. Was it a place where people slept? Did the _forestieri_ lay their heads on those white things? Was this soft wonder he sat on, a bed? He looked up above him at the beautiful tent, and felt so lost and strange that he could almost have shouted for Maria again. If she had been there, or if he could have understood what Nicola said, it would not have been so awful. But it was so grand and strange, and Ceriani and Maria and the donkey seemed in another world thousands of miles away. It was as if suddenly he had been taken to Paradise, and had found himself frightened and homesick because it was so far from Ceriani, and so different. Nicola came back with a plate. There were things to eat on it, and she offered them to him. And then he realized that a strange thing had happened to him, which had never happened before in his life. There before him was a plateful of good things—things such as the _forestieri_ brought in their hampers. And he did not want them! Something seemed to have filled up his throat, and he could not eat. He, Piccino, actually could not eat! The tears came into his eyes, and he shook his head. “_Non ho fame_” (I am not hungry,) he whimpered. And he poked the plate away. “I suppose he has been stuffed with cakes all day,” said Nicholson, “and he is too sleepy. Good gracious, how pretty he is!” She turned down the frilled and embroidered sheets, and gave the pillows a little thump. Then she picked Piccino up again, put him into the bed and covered him up. He lay among the whiteness, a lovely picture put to bed, his eyes wide open, and shining with his awe. “Go to sleep,” she said, “and don’t be a bad boy.” And then she turned out the light and walked out of the room, leaving the door a little open. Piccino lay among the softness, his eyes growing bigger and bigger in the dark. He was so little, and everything around him seemed so large and magnificent. This was the way the king’s son was put to bed—bundled up in a strange garment, with lace frills tickling his ears and cheeks, and with big sleeves which prevented his using his hands. And he could not hear the donkey in her stable—the donkey, who must be there this very moment, because she had not been taken away, but had been bought back from Beppo. Oh, if he could hear her now! but perhaps—perhaps he never could get to the stable again; the _forestieri_—the strange, rich lady, would never let him go back—never! A little sob broke from him, under Lady Aileen’s dressing-jacket his breast heaved piteously, he turned and buried his face upon the pillow, and wept and wept and wept.