“Enough, enough, nonna,” Ciro interrupted, “the signori are in haste! To San Domenico now? I will call the _custode_, he is my friend.” “What does that strip of black cloth nailed across the shutter signify?” Patsy asked, as we walked towards San Domenico. “Mourning,” Ciro explained. “Wherever you see it, you may know that in the house dwell refugees, or people who have lost relations in the earthquake.” Every third house in Taormina had this mourning badge. Waiting outside the church of San Domenico, were two gentlemen from Turin, a large urbane man, and a slight taciturn person who never spoke. Patsy, who apparently knew them, began asking questions about the church. “I have not yet seen it,” said the urbane man, “but I hear it is the best in Taormina--“ San Domenico is a fine old church with a soft cracked bell; we liked it far better than the cathedral. The _custode_, unfortunately, was a layman; he knew his lesson well, however. “This,” he said, pointing to a curious picture, “is San Domenico. Observe the _manta_, real silver, and the chasing--ah! there is but one finer, the _manta_ of the Madonna at the Matrice in Messina.” The saint’s head, painted on wood or canvas, was set into the _manta_, a square of wrought silver, very Spanish in feeling, that filled the entire frame. On a quaint old tomb a warrior in armor, a crusader from his crossed legs, lies uneasily on his side. His name was Giovanni Corvaia; he built the palace of that name. “Come see the organ,” said Patsy, “it’s like Saint Cecilia’s in the Domenichino picture.” The organ stands in a damp side chapel. It is of wood, painted a soft green, with gilded pipes and ornaments. “_Molto antico_, four hundred years old and still in use,” the _custode_ declared. “Will one of the gentry be pleased to play? I will blow the bellows.” The urbane Torinese took his seat at the organ; the _custode_ raised the lid of the keyboard. There was but one bank of yellow ivory keys, much worn by pious fingers. “Four octaves,” said the Torinese; he measured the notes with a musician’s hand, then began to play an air from Pagliacci. The organ’s voice, like an old artist’s, was still sweet and true, though uncertain and tremulous. As he played the Torinese talked over his shoulder: “You know this air--yes? and this? You like our Italian composers? Tell me where you will find their match! Mascagni, Leoncavallo, Puccini, Boito--for me his Mefistofile is the noblest of modern operas.” “Come!” cried Patsy, the concert over, “I have found two portraits of a jolly old monk, who spent his whole life beautifying this church. First, look at his work. This pulpit, these choir stalls--aren’t they lovely?”