_Blup._ 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 with that name. _2d Pol._ 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. _3d Pol._ 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.) _2d Pol._ Flourish all round--"Put all possible obstacles in his way;" oblong dot at the end--"Detain him till further advices reach you;" scratch at bottom--"Send him back on pretence of some informality in the above;" ink-spirt on righthand side (which is the case here)--"Arrest him at once." Why and wherefore, I don't concern myself, but my instructions amount to this: if Signor Luigi leaves home to-night 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 to-night--there has been the pretence we suspect, the accounts of his corresponding and holding intelligence with the Carbonari are correct, we arrest him at once, to-morrow comes Venice, and presently Spielberg. Bluphocks makes the signal, sure enough! That is he, entering the turret with his mother, no doubt. FOOTNOTE: [Footnote 3: "He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust."] III. EVENING _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. _Luigi._ Here surely, then. How plain the tap of my heel as I leaped up! Hark--"Lucius Junius!" The very ghost of a voice Whose body is caught and kept by ... what are those? Mere withered wallflowers, waving overhead? They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hair That lean out of their topmost fortress--look And listen, mountain men, to what we say, Hand under chin of each grave earthy face. Up and show faces all of you!--"All of you!" That 's the king dwarf with the scarlet comb; old Franz, Come down and meet your fate? Hark--"Meet your fate!" _Mother._ Let him not meet it, my Luigi--do not Go to his City! Putting crime aside, Half of these ills of Italy are feigned: Your Pellicos and writers for effect, Write for effect. _Luigi._ Hush! Say A writes, and B.