He had probably lost it in some wild battle of his stormy youth, fought almost to death against the huge Campagna sheep-dogs; or perhaps a wolf had got it, or perhaps he had never had a tail at all.

Ercole had probably forgotten, and it did not really matter much.
"Corbario is an assassin," he said.

"Remember that, Nino.

As for his poor lady, she is a little lacking, or she would never have married him.
But she is a saint, and what do saints want with cleverness?
They go to paradise.

Does that need much sense?
We should all go if we could.