Mar—ga—ri, Ma l'ommo e cacciatore! Mar—ga—ri, Nun ce aje corpa tu! Chello ch' e fatto, e fatto, un ne parlammo cchieu!" A piano-organ was pouring the metallic music through our open windows, while a voice of brass brayed the words, which I have since obtained, and print above for identification by such as know their Italy better than I. They will not thank me for reminding them of a tune so lately epidemic in that land of aloes and blue skies; but at least it is unlikely to run in their heads as the ribald accompaniment to a tragedy; and it does in mine. It was in the early heat of August, and the hour that of the lawful and necessary siesta for such as turn night into day. I was therefore shutting my window in a rage, and wondering whether I should not do the same for Raffles, when he appeared in the silk pajamas to which the chronic solicitude of Dr. Theobald confined him from morning to night. "Don't do that, Bunny," said he. "I rather like that thing, and want to listen. What sort of fellows are they to look at, by the way?" I put my head out to see, it being a primary rule of our quaint establishment that Raffles must never show himself at any of the windows.
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