A coach was summoned, and I got into it, for if I had dared to walk along the streets in my magnificent attire the mob would have pelted me.
I went into the hall of justice, and all eyes were at once attracted towards me; my silks and satins appeared to them the height of impertinence.
At the end of the room I saw a gentleman sitting in an arm-chair, and concluded him to be my judge. I was right, and the judge was blind. He wore a broad band round his head, passing over his eyes. A man beside me, guessing I was a foreigner, said in French,—
“Be of good courage, Mr. Fielding is a just and equitable magistrate.”
I thanked the kindly unknown, and was delighted to see before me this famous and estimable writer, whose works are an honour to the English nation.
When my turn came, the clerk of the court told Mr. Fielding my name, at least, so I presume.
“Signor Casanova,” said he, in excellent Italian, “be kind enough to step forward. I wish to speak to you.”
I was delighted to hear the accents of my native tongue, and making my way through the press I came up to the bar of the court, and said,—
“Eccomi, Signore.”
He continued to speak Italian, and said,—