"And my host," I continued, thrusting on a black serge jacket; "he must be a churchman, as he is served by priests: how am I to address him?"
"Italians style him, 'his eminence;' but we, his faithful domestics and followers,——"
"Eminence!—is he Cardinal Ruffo?"
"Ruffo, the apostate!" repeated the other, with such intense scorn, that I was undeceived.
"He is a cardinal at all events; and I (unhappy pagan!) have been styling him plain signor. Excuse my laughing; but, faith! one feels so comfortable in these dry clothes, after the misery of—but what is this? I am not going to a masquerade!"
"It is our master's pleasure that you attire yourself thus," said Catanio, handing me a cassock and three flapped-hat like his own; "it is your only safe disguise."
"It is just like a snug dressing-gown after all," said I, donning the garment.
"You are a perfect monk, signor!" said the old man, smiling kindly; "but do not keep your head so erect: that is an old habit. Ah! there was a time—but here are your beads—tie the girdle thus. Bravo! you are a very monk."
"Snuff, grease, garlic, &c. excepted," I thought.
"I am happy to assist in saving a countryman from those false Frenchmen."