“You have me understood,” said the count severely, “I have all the books bought of which you speak.  You will repeat, and I will in the book follow.  Then shall we know each other much better.”

Nino was not a little astonished at this mode of procedure, and wondered how far his memory would serve him in such an unexpected examination.

“It will take a long time to ascertain in this way—­” he began.

“This,” said the count coldly, as he opened a volume of Dante, “is the celestial play by Signor Alighieri.  If you anything know, you will it repeat.”

Nino resigned himself and began repeating the first canto of the “Inferno.”  When he had finished it he paused.

“Forwards,” said the count, without any change of manner.

“More?” inquired Nino.

“March!” said the old gentleman in military tone, and the boy went on with the second canto.

“Apparently know you the beginning.”  The count opened the book at random in another place.  “The thirtieth canto of ‘Purgatory.’  You will now it repeat.”

“Ah!” cried Nino, “that is where Dante meets Beatrice.”

“My hitherto not-by-any-means-extensive, but always from-the-conscience-undertaken reading, reaches not so far.  You will it repeat.  So shall we know.”  Nino passed his hand inside his collar as though to free his throat, and began again, losing all consciousness of his tormentor in his own enjoyment of the verse.

“When was the Signor Alighieri born?” inquired Graf von Lira, very suddenly, as though to catch him.

“May 1265, in Florence,” answered the other, as quickly.

“I said when, not where.  I know he was in Florence born.  When and where died he?” The question was asked fiercely.

“Fourteenth of September 1321, at Ravenna.”

“I think really you something of Signor Alighieri know,” said the count, and shut up the volume of the poet and the dictionary of dates he had been obliged to consult to verify Nino’s answers.  “We will proceed.”

Nino is fortunately one of those people whose faculties serve them best at their utmost need, and during the three hours—­three blessed hours—­that Graf von Lira kept him under his eye, asking questions and forcing him to repeat all manner of things, he acquitted himself fairly well.

“I have now myself satisfied that you something know,” said the count, in his snappish military fashion, and he shut the last book, and never from that day referred in any manner to Nino’s extent of knowledge, taking it for granted that he had made an exhaustive investigation.  “And now,” he continued, “I desire you to engage for the reading of literature with my daughter, upon the usual terms.”  Nino was so much pleased that he almost lost his self-control, but a moment restored his reflection.

“I am honoured—­” he began.

“You are not honoured at all,” interrupted the count, coldly.  “What are the usual terms?”