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Jews might be consumed in this fire.
    Papa was the first to recover his equanimity. Having thanked the equerry profusely, he turned to his famiglia .
    “As you hear, the gracious Marchese has sent wagons to take us to the port. Let us therefore stanch our tears” — this advice was accompanied by a stern look at Dania and Cecilia, two young women of the famiglia who had embarked on a fortissimo duet of weeping and wailing — “and with all good haste, make our preparations.”
    “Pack no cassones . No boxes. Nothing that will impede our flight,” he cautioned them. “Each bring your own bedsack and put on all your warm clothes. Be quick. Time is our ally. We must not betray him with tarrying.”
    Still old Rabbi Isaac stood, supported by his son, as if fixed to the floor. And Davide, our tutor, appeared dazed beside his weeping wife and as short of will as my Aunt Sofronia. But Monna Matilda had will and energy enough for all.
    “Get on, you lot,” she ordered. “You heard Ser Daniele. Time is our ally. We must not betray him.” And to emphasize the point, she sent the rabbi flying out the door with a great shove. Then, turning back into the room, she headed for the table in a most resolute way and proceeded to wrap up the leftover cakes of matzoh in a cloth.
    “We will carry our matzoh as we make our escape just like the Jews of old.” Then she gathered up her twins and took her leave.
    Meanwhile, Papa had bade our servants to fetch our clothes and mattresses, for he wished us to remain with him.
    Now, Papa inquired of the equerry how many horses the barge might accommodate, for he did not wish to abandon his animals.
    “None, I am afraid,” was the answer. “The boatmen of the Mincio have little taste for nocturnal voyages. We could commandeer but one vessel to carry you to Governolo and that one too light to carry animals.” Then, seeing the distress on Mama’s face, the gentleman quickly added, “I am certain that when you reach the Po, there will be no shortage of comfortable barques to carry you on to Ferrara.”
    Having thus smoothly disposed of the Jewish problem, he turned to take his leave. But something stopped him.
    “About the animals . . .” He hesitated, no longer the patronizing flunkey but a man with fellow feeling. “I share your concern for them. Knowing my lord’s nature, I feel he would wish me to offer the hospitality of the Gonzaga stud to your horses. Yes, indeed he would. And believe me, Maestro Daniele, they will be cared for as if they were the Marchese’s own precious Barbary steeds.” They love horseflesh in that family.
    Mama kept her composure during the equerry’s visit, but the minute the door closed behind him her lips began to quiver.
    “They were only concerned to protect the contents of our warehouse,” she cried. “Now that the goods are safely put away at the monastery, they will abandon us.”
    “You forget, my Rachel, that I am a sharp Jewish gambler,” Papa replied with a smile. Papa a gambler? We had never before heard such a thing mentioned.
    “Oh yes, my dears,” he went on, including us now in his audience. “Your father has been cursed as a damned Jew cardsharper. And you know that the cardsharper always has a knave up his sleeve . . . or under his shirt . . .” Whereupon he reached under the strings of his camicia and drew forth a small dun-colored bag of some undistinguished cloth.
    “Daniele,” Mama rebuked him, “this is no time for games.”
    “And this is no game, my dear,” he retorted, as he loosed the cord around the little bag and poured out onto the table a cornucopia of jewels. Diamonds and rubies and pearls tumbled onto the tablecloth, shooting out into the room a corona of red and green and clear white shafts that made our eyes blink. And when that brilliant stream ceased, Papa shook the bag and out rolled two great green emeralds the size of plover’s eggs.
    “By Saint George and Saint Stephen,” Papa shook his head in