And so he was taken again into the blue and white porcelain bathroom. He could not believe the evidence of his senses when Nicola turned the silver things again, and the streams came rushing forth. He stood and looked at her, quaking. And she came and took off his fantastic nightgown as she had taken off his rags the night before. And she lifted him up and put him into the deep water again, and soaped and splashed and washed him almost as hard as she had done it the first time. He began to feel stunned and dazed. He did not scream or fight or struggle. He simply gave himself up and stared into space. Moment by moment Ceriani removed itself farther and farther. The dog had brought it nearer, but the dog had been torn away from him. And here he was in the water, being scrubbed once more. He was taken out and rubbed dry, and Nicola left him for a moment again. When she came back she carried white things. She began to put them on him—a strange little fine shirt with lace, curious little short things for his legs—not the beautiful masculine trousers of Sandro, alas! but short white things trimmed with embroidery, and only just reaching to his knees—and then—a petticoat! Yes, it was a petticoat! Just as if he had never been a man at all. He pushed it aside, his cheeks crimson with indignation. “_Roba di donna! No! no! Dove sono i miei pantaloni! Io porto pantaloni!_” (Not women’s clothes! Where are my trousers? I wear trousers.) Nicholson gave him a sharp slap. She was tired of his Italian exclaimings. “You naughty child!” she said, “behave yourself! I don’t know what you mean, but I won’t have it!” And so, in spite of himself, the indignity was put upon him. He was dressed in _roba di donna_, just like a girl. And round his waist was tied a broad sash, and round his neck was put a lace collar, and on his brown legs short socks, which did not reach his calves. And at his back there was a big bow, and under his chin a smaller one; and combs were dragged through his hair as before, and brushes plied on it. And when it was all done he stood feeling like a mountebank, and dumb and scarlet under his sense of insult. Let him once get away—let him once get away, and he would show them whether they would get him again! He did not know how far it was to Ceriani, but if he could steal out of a door when no one was looking, and walk back, they might take the donkey if they liked, but he would scream and kick and fight and bite until they were afraid to touch him, before they should buy him again.