_2nd Policeman._ Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silk-mills 45 here: he dozes by the hour, wakes up, sighs deeply, says he should like to be Prince Metternich, and then dozes again, after having bidden young Sebald, the foreigner, set his wife to playing draughts. Never molest such a household; they mean well. 50 _Bluphocks._ Only, cannot you tell me something of this little Pippa I must have to do with? One could make something of that name. Pippa--that is, short for Felippa--rhyming to _Panurge consults Hertrippa--Believest thou, King Agrippa?_ Something might be done 55 with that name. _2nd Policeman._ Put into rhyme that your head and a ripe muskmelon would not be dear at half a _zwanziger_! Leave this fooling, and look out; the afternoon 's over or nearly so. 60 _3rd Policeman._ Where in this passport of Signor Luigi does our Principal instruct you to watch him so narrowly? There? What's there beside a simple signature? (That English fool's busy watching.) _2nd Policeman._ Flourish all round--"Put all possible 65 obstacles in his way"; oblong dot at the end--"Detain him till further advices reach you"; scratch at bottom--"Send him back on pretense of some informality in the above"; ink-spirt on right-hand side (which is the case here)--"Arrest him at once." Why and wherefore, I 70 don't concern myself, but my instructions amount to this: if Signor Luigi leaves home tonight for Vienna--well and good, the passport deposed with us for our visa is really for his own use, they have misinformed the Office, and he means well; but let him stay over tonight--there 75 has been the pretense we suspect, the accounts of his corresponding and holding intelligence with the Carbonari are correct, we arrest him at once, tomorrow comes Venice, and presently Spielberg. Bluphocks makes the signal, sure enough! That is he, entering the 80 turret with his mother, no doubt. III.--EVENING SCENE.--_Inside the Turret on the Hill above Asolo._ LUIGI _and his_ Mother _entering._ _Mother._ If there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easing The utmost heaviness of music's heart. _Luigi._ Here in the archway? _Mother._ Oh, no, no--in farther, Where the echo is made, on the ridge.