Peloso egli era a modo d’ un montone;
Spine e fango il suo letto era per certo,
Del suo peccato havea contrizione;
E ogni cosa facea con gran fervore,
Per purgar il suo fallo e grand’ errore.
In the meantime it came into the king’s head to draw the covers where the hermit was leading this life. The dogs of course found, but neither they nor the king could make anything of this new species of animal, “che pareva un orso.” So they took him home in a chain and deposited him in their zoological collection, where he refused meat and bread, and persisted in grazing. On new year’s day the queen gives birth to a son, who, on the seventh day after he is born, says distinctly to the hermit,—
Torna alla tua cella,
Che Dio t’ ha perdonato il tuo peccato,
Levati su, Romito! ova favella!
But the hermit does not speak as commanded; he makes signs that he will write. The king orders the inkstand to be brought, but there is no ink in it: so Schitano at once earns his surname of Boccadoro (Chrysostom) by a simple expedient: he puts the pen to his mouth, wets it with his saliva, and writes in letters of gold—