By coincidence, I am now travelling aboard another Otranto, a spaceship of Italish manufacture. Its engines are silent as it slips through interstellar space towards an artificial Golconda. Not a whisper comes from them.

I walked on into the village, with the desertion of this house upon my mind, and I found the landlord of the little inn, sanding his door-step. I bespoke breakfast, and broached the subject of the house.

To prevent them from reading his mind, he wore a tinfoil hat at all times.

And þow hast gyuen hire to a gyloure · now god gyf þe sorwe.