And there tripping merrily along were three peasant damsels, arrayed in their holiday attire, and with them a bow-legged youth attired as a postillion, strutted on his way with extended stride and lofty air, which seemed to say, that all this parade and show, was made for his sole benefit and especial amusement.
“Sancta Maria! How he trips it along!” thus spoke the tallest of the damsels “beshrew, but Sir Francisco is wondrous proud, since he was knighted by the Duke!”
“How! knighted?” cried the damsel of the merry black eye.
“What mean you?” cried the red-haired maiden, and the bow-legged postillion looked over his shoulder with a vacant stare.
“Was he not honored with the collar, the hempen collar?” cried the tall maiden. “Did not that rough soldier of the Count Di Albarone that was, the Duke of Florence that is now, did not Rough Robin knight Sir Francisco with his own hands? How dull you are!”
“Ugh!” exclaimed the postillion shrugging his shoulders. “What unpleasant things you do remember! And yet the Duke said something very flattering, when he directed the rope to be taken from my neck. He said, says he, he said, I tell you—that I—
“Was a little impertinent, insignificant, busy-body,” exclaimed Theresa, laughing. “But Francisco what mean you to do with the reward, you received from the Duke that was murdered, eh? Francisco?”
“Yes, yes, what are you going to do with all that gold?” cried Dollabella, and the three gathered around the youth with evident interest, expressed in each face in the glittering eyes and the parted lips.
“Why Theresa, Dollabella, and Loretta,” answered the postillion, looking slowly round, with an expression of the deepest solemnity, “I mean to—that is, I intend—by’r Ladye the Cathedral bell is ringing. Come along, girls!”
“Ha, ha, ha! ’Tis a fair day and a bright,” laughed a shrill voice at the elbow of Francisco, “Florence is full of joy and e’en I, I am glad.”