Monseigneur (dreamily). I know it well. Thence one can see for many, many leagues.
Beppo (eagerly). Is it not so? The wandering river that looks like milk and steals away, a ribbon fading in the mist. The woods, the farms, the little towers of the châteaux; the distant steeple that points a finger for the country folk to God! And here and there the bright glint of sunlight one fancies striking on the spears of some brave knight’s company, riding and singing through the meadows; yet ’tis only gleaming on the window of some lonely, peaceful manor.
Monseigneur (gently). I think thou art a poet, Beppo.
Beppo (offended). I hope not. I only tell thee what there is to see.
Monseigneur. I know it well. I saw it last in summer with my mother.
Beppo. Now shalt thou see it in springtime, and with me; with all the orchard blossom, white and gay as brides with their bouquets. Come!
Monseigneur. Thou wilt take me there?
Beppo. Aye! and cure thee of thy sickness. Thou wilt come?
Monseigneur (yearningly). If only thou wilt help me.