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Updated: June 25, 2025
Not as confession he told it, but as a pleasant tale, for he looked on the swift demise of la Garda's friend, in the night, in the spidery room, as a fair blessing for Spain, a thing most suited to the sweet days of Spring. The spiritual man rejoiced to hear such a tale, as do all men of peace to hear talk of violent deeds in which they may not share.
The clothing for which Rodriguez searched the plain vainly was ready to hand. No disguise was effective against la Garda, they had too many suspicions, their skill was to discover disguises. But in the moment of la Garda's triumph, when they had found out the disguise, when success had lulled the suspicions for which they were infamous, then was the time to trick la Garda.
They were now standing close to their captives and this simple question calmed the four men's curses, all of a sudden, like shutting the door on a storm. "Leave them," Rodriguez said. And la Garda's spirits rose and they cursed again. "Ah. To die in the wood," said Morano. "No," said Rodriguez; and he walked towards the horses.
Verona, the poet's birthplace, "Sweet Sirmio," his home on the long narrow peninsula that cleaves Garda's "limpid lake," Brescia, "below the Cycnaean peak," the "dimpling waters" of heavenly Como, and the estate of Caecilius; all were familiar to him.
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