If it were really old Lira who had chosen this retreat in which to imprison his daughter and himself, I asked myself whether I could do anything save send word to Nino as soon as possible.
I felt like a sort of Don Quixote, suddenly chilled into the prosaic requirements of common sense.

Perhaps if Hedwig had been my Dulcinea, instead of Nino's, the crazy fit would have lasted, and I would have attempted to scale the castle wall and carry off the prize by force.
There is no telling what a sober old professor of philosophy may not do when he is crazy.

But meanwhile I was sane.

Graf von Lira had a right to live anywhere he pleased with his daughter, and the fact that I had discovered the spot where he pleased to live did not constitute an introduction.

Or finally, if I got access to the old count, what had I to say to him?
Ought I to make a formal request for Nino?
I looked at my old clothes and almost smiled.
But the weather was cold, though the roads were dusty; so I mounted my ass and jogged along, meditating deeply..