'You may note that this fellow Bartolo persists in calling himself Stradella,' said the Legate, looking first at one clerk and then at the other.
'I am not Bartolo!' cried the musician indignantly. 'I am Alessandro Stradella, the singer, well known to hundreds of people in Rome.'
'You see how he persists,' answered the Legate with an ironical smile. 'Write down what he says as correctly as you can.'
Stradella saw that it was useless to protest, and that vehemence might be dangerous.
'By your leave,' he said more quietly, 'if you will loosen my hands and let me have my lute there, I will prove what I say, by singing and playing to you.'
'Anybody can sing,' retorted Monsignor Pelagatti with profound contempt, and without even looking at him. 'Write down that he has insulted this tribunal by offering to sing to the Legate and his clerks—which low jesting is contempt of court, and nothing else. The man is either drunk or insane.'
Stradella was speechless with anger and disgust, and his face grew very pale.
'Open his effects,' the Legate said, when the clerks' pens stopped moving.
Two of the sbirri at once unstrapped the valises, and laid out the contents on the long table on each side of the Legate, neatly and in order. One of the bags contained clothes and personal effects, but the other was almost entirely filled with manuscript compositions and a supply of paper ruled for writing music. It also contained a leathern pouch stuffed full of gold ducats.
'There we have it!' exclaimed Monsignor Pelagatti. 'Is the goldsmith come?'