“I have not yet seen it,” said the urbane man, “but I hear it is the best in Taormina—“
San Domenico is a fine old church with a soft cracked bell; we liked it far better than the cathedral. The custode, unfortunately, was a layman; he knew his lesson well, however.
“This,” he said, pointing to a curious picture, “is San Domenico. Observe the manta, real silver, and the chasing—ah! there is but one finer, the manta of the Madonna at the Matrice in Messina.”
The saint’s head, painted on wood or canvas, was set into the manta, a square of wrought silver, very Spanish in feeling, that filled the entire frame.
On a quaint old tomb a warrior in armor, a crusader from his crossed legs, lies uneasily on his side. His name was Giovanni Corvaia; he built the palace of that name.
“Come see the organ,” said Patsy, “it’s like Saint Cecilia’s in the Domenichino picture.”
The organ stands in a damp side chapel. It is of wood, painted a soft green, with gilded pipes and ornaments.
“Molto antico, four hundred years old and still in use,” the custode declared. “Will one of the gentry be pleased to play? I will blow the bellows.”
The urbane Torinese took his seat at the organ; the custode raised the lid of the keyboard. There was but one bank of yellow ivory keys, much worn by pious fingers.
“Four octaves,” said the Torinese; he measured the notes with a musician’s hand, then began to play an air from Pagliacci. The organ’s voice, like an old artist’s, was still sweet and true, though uncertain and tremulous. As he played the Torinese talked over his shoulder: