Isidoro, sitting in a tree, is writing about his exploits. The peasants and Corradino's troops arrive ("Di Corradino il nome per ogni suol rimbomba" - "May the name of Corradino resound in every country"), and, although they know that most of what Isidoro has written is made up, he persuades them that that's what poets do ("Le penne de i poeti so spade assai diverse" - "Poets' pens are quite different weapons"), and they nevertheless salute him and take him with them.