Graf von Lira, as I have already told you, is a foreigner of rank, who had been a Prussian colonel, and was wounded in the war of 1866.  He is very tall, very thin, and very grey, with wooden features and a huge moustache that stands out like the beaks on the colonna rostrata.  His eyes are small and very far apart, and fix themselves with terrible severity when he speaks, even if he is only saying “good-morning.”  His nails are very long and most carefully kept, and though he is so lame that he could not move a step without the help of his stick, he is still an upright and military figure.  I remember well how he looked, for he came to see me under peculiar circumstances, many months after the time of which I am now speaking; and, besides, I had stood next to him for an hour in the chapel of the choir in St. Peter’s.

He speaks Italian intelligibly, but with the strangest German constructions, and he rolls the letter r curiously in his throat.  But he is an intelligent man for a soldier, though he thinks talent is a matter of education, and education a matter of drill.  He is the most ceremonious man I ever saw; and Nino says he rose from his chair to meet him, and would not sit down again until Nino was seated.

“The signore is the professor of Italian literature recommended to me by Signor De Pretis?” inquired the colonel in iron tones, as he scrutinised Nino.

“Yes, Signor Conte,” was the answer.

“You are a singularly young man to be a professor.”  Nino trembled.  “And how have you the education obtained in order the obligations and not-to-be-avoided responsibilities of this worthy-of-all-honour career to meet?”

“I went to school here, Signor Conte, and the Professor Grandi, in whose house I always have lived, has taught me everything else I know.”

“What do you know?” inquired the count, so suddenly that Nino was taken off his guard.  He did not know what to answer.  The count looked very stern and pulled his moustaches.  “You have not here come,” he continued, seeing that Nino made no answer, “without knowing something.  Evident is it, that, although a man young be, if he nothing knows, he cannot a professor be.”

“You speak justly, Signor Conte,” Nino answered at last, “and I do know some things.  I know the Commedia of Alighieri, and Petrarca, and I have read the Gerusalemme Liberata with Professor Grandi, and I can repeat all of the Vita Nuova by heart, and some of the—­”

“For the present that is enough,” said the count.  “If you nothing better to do have, will you so kind be as to begin?”

“Begin?” said Nino, not understanding.

“Yes, signore; it would unsuitable be if I my daughter to the hands of a man committed unacquainted with the matter he to teach her proposes.  I desire to be satisfied that you all these things really know.”

“Do I understand, Signor Conte, that you wish me to repeat to you some of the things I know by heart?”