I thought as he did, that he would never sing again, but I never talked to him about it, lest he should try, now that he was as quiet as a nightingale with its tongue cut out.  But nature meant differently, I suppose.  One day De Pretis came to see me; it must have been near the new year, for he never came often at that time.  It was only a friendly recollection of the days when I had a castello and a church of my own at Serveti, and used to have him come from Rome to sing at the festa, and he came every year to see me; and his head grew bald as mine grew grey, so that at last he wears a black skull-cap everywhere, like a priest, and only takes it off when he sings the Gloria Patri, or at the Elevation.  However, he came to see me, and Nino sat mutely by, as we smoked a little and drank the syrup of violets with water that Mariuccia brought us.  It was one of her eternal extravagances, but somehow, though she never understood the value of economy, my professorship brought in more than enough for us, and it was not long after this that I began to buy the bit of vineyard out of Porta Salara, by instalments from my savings.  And since then we have our own wine.

De Pretis was talking to me about a new opera that he had heard.  He never sang except in church, of course, but he used to go to the theatre of an evening; so it was quite natural that he should go to the piano and begin to sing a snatch of the tenor air to me, explaining the situation as he went along, between his singing.

Nino could not sit still, and went and leaned over Sor Ercole, as we call the maestro, hanging on the notes, not daring to try and sing, for he had lost his voice, but making the words with his lips.

“Dio mio!” he cried at last, “how I wish I could sing that!”

“Try it,” said De Pretis, laughing and half interested by the boy’s earnest look.  “Try it—­I will sing it again.”  But Nino’s face fell.

“It is no use,” he said.  “My voice is all broken to pieces now, because I sang too much before.”

“Perhaps it will come back,” said the musician kindly, seeing the tears in the young fellow’s eyes.  “See, we will try a scale.”  He struck a chord.  “Now, open your mouth—­so—­Do-o-o-o!” He sang a long note.  Nino could not resist any longer, whether he had any voice or not.  He blushed red and turned away, but he opened his mouth and made a sound.

“Do-o-o-o!” He sang like the master, but much weaker.

“Not so bad; now the next, Re-e-e!” Nino followed him.  And so on, up the scale.

After a few more notes, De Pretis ceased to smile, and cried, “Go on, go on!” after every note, authoritatively, and in quite a different manner from his first kindly encouragement.  Nino, who had not sung for months, took courage and a long breath, and went on as he was bid, his voice gaining volume and clearness as he sang higher.  Then De Pretis stopped and looked at him earnestly.

“You are mad,” he said.  “You have not lost your voice at all.”