Your father and I, sitting one summer night on the terrace at Castellinaria watching the moon on the water, agreed that this book might be dedicated to you, although you have not yet put it into my power to ask your permission. “After all,” exclaimed your father, “what is existence?” And I was unable to give him a satisfactory reply. When Orlando and his Paladins were overcome at Roncisvalle through the treachery of Gano di Magonza, were they all slain? When “the Crusaders’ streams of shadowy p. vimidnight troops sped with the sunrise,” did none linger? When the angel.
