“In a few minutes afterwards the prince found himself driven under a kind of archway.  It was a coach-house belonging to an inn.  On his expressing surprise at being driven into this sort of place, and repeating his determination to proceed to Florence, the coachman said, that, at all events, he must change his horses; and that this was the most convenient place for so doing.  In fact, he took out his horses, and led them away.

    “After waiting some time for his return, the prince called to
    Frantz, and bade him open the door of this coach-house, and
    bring somebody.

    “Frantz obeyed, but found the door shut—­fastened.

“On hearing that they were shut in, the prince started from the carriage, shook the gates with all his might, called out lustily, and looked about, but in vain, for some paving stone with which to batter them open.

“Now the prince was a man of admirable good sense; so, having satisfied himself that the people in the house either could not, or would not hear him, he determined to make the best of his position.  Re-entering the carriage, he drew up the glasses, looked to his pistols, stretched out his legs, and wishing his mother good night, went off to sleep.  Frantz did the same on his post.  The princess was not so fortunate; she was in perpetual terror of some ambush, and kept her eyes wide open all the night.

    “So the night passed.  At seven o’clock in the morning the door
    of the coach-house opened, and a driver appeared with a couple
    of horses.

    “‘Are there not some travellers for Florence here?’ he asked
    with the tone of perfect politeness, and as if he were putting
    the most natural question in the world.

    “The prince leapt from the carriage with the intention of
    strangling the man—­but it was another driver!

    “‘Where is the rascal that brought us here?’ he demanded.

    “‘What, Peppino?  Does your excellence mean Peppino?’

    “‘The driver from Pontedera?’

    “‘Ah, well, that was Peppino.’

    “‘Then where is Peppino?’

“’He is on his road home.  Yes, your excellence.  You see it was the fete of the Madonna, and we danced and drank together—­I and Peppino—­all the night; and this morning about an hour ago says he to me, ’Gaetano, do you take your horses, and go find two travellers and a servant who are under a coach-house at the Croix d’Or; all is paid except the buona-mano.’  And I asked him, your excellence, how it happened that travellers were sleeping in a coach-house instead of in a chamber.  ‘Oh,’ said he, ’they are English—­they are afraid of not having clean sheets, and so they prefer to sleep in their carriage in the coach-house.’  Now as I know the English are a nation of originals, I supposed it was all right, and so I emptied another