The solemn march was still sounding in the tent, and before speaking the clown gave the spectators full time to take in the tragic tableau. Then he exclaimed briskly:
“What are you crying about, boy?”
“Because our horse is dead.”
“Do you think he is quite dead, Natale?”
“Oh, quite,” wailed the child.
“Get up and feel his pulse, boy. If there is any pulse he is not dead.”
Natale went nearer and took one of the great hoofs of the horse fearlessly into his little hands, and felt for the “pulse.”
“Well, what do you find?” asked the clown impatiently.
“There isn’t any pulse,” the little fellow wailed again, laying down the big black hoof with the utmost tenderness.
“Too bad,” quoth the clown, taking his seat deliberately on the prostrate horse, which lay as motionless as if certainly dead. Then, all in a moment, Natale’s manner changed, and he skipped around in front of Giovanni, remarking glibly that the gentleman had found a beautiful sofa to sit upon.