“No, Excellency.  But they tell so many silly stories about us in Verbicaro.  That is in Calabria where I and my brother were born.  And when our mother, blessed soul, was dying—­good health to your Excellency—­she blessed us and said this to us.  ’Ruggiero, Sebastiano, dear sons, you could not save me and I am going.  God bless you,’ said she.  ‘Our Lady help you.  Remember, you are the Children of the King.’  Then she said, ‘Remember’ again, as though she would say something more.  But just at that very moment Christ took her, and she did not speak again, for she was dead—­good health to your Excellency for a thousand years.  And so it was.”

“And what happened then?” asked Beatrice, strangely interested and charmed by the man’s simple story.

“Then we beat Don Pietro Casale, Excellency, and spoiled all his face and head.  We were little boys, twelve and ten years old, but there was the anger to give us strength.  And so we ran away from Verbicaro, because we had no one and we had to eat, and had beaten Don Pietro Casale, who would have had us put in prison if he had caught us.  But thanks to Heaven we had good legs.  And so we ran away, Excellency.”

“It is very interesting.  But what were those stories they told about you in Verbicaro?”

“Silly stories, Excellency.  They say that once upon a time King Roger came riding by with all his army and many knights; and all armed because there was war.  And he took Verbicaro from the Turks and gave it to a son of his who was called the Son of the King, as I would give Bastianello half a cigar or a pipe of tobacco in the morning—­it is true he always has his own—­and so the Son of the King stayed in that place and lived there, and I have heard old men say that when their fathers—­who were also old, Excellency—­were boys, many houses in Verbicaro belonged to the Children of the King.  But then they ate everything and we have had nothing but these two hands and these two arms and now we go about seeking to eat.  But thanks to Heaven—­and to-day is Saturday—­we have been able to work enough.  And that is the truth, Excellency.”

“What a strange tale!” exclaimed the young girl.  “But to-day is Tuesday, Ruggiero.  Why do you say it is Saturday?”

“I beg pardon of your Excellency, it is a silly custom and means nothing.  But when a man says he is well, or that there is a west wind, or that his boat is sound, he says ‘to-day is Saturday,’ because it might be Friday and he might have forgotten that.  It is a silly custom, Excellency.”

“Do not call me excellency, Ruggiero,” said Beatrice.  “I have no right to be called so.”

“And what could I call you when I have to speak to you, Excellency?  I have been taught so.”

“Only princes and dukes and their children are excellencies,” answered Beatrice.  “My father was only a Marchese.  So if you wish to please me, call me ‘signorina.’  That is the proper way to speak to me.”