this erect, white-haired giant, who regarded her in a kindly way; "or is
it that feather-brained fellow Calabressa who has got you to intercede
for him? Rest assured. Calabressa will soon be in imminent peril of
being laid by the heels, and he is therefore supremely happy."

Before the girl could speak he had turned to the mother.

"Come, my old friend, shall we go out into the garden? I am sorry the
reception-rooms in the villa are all dismantled; in truth, we are only
temporary lodgers. And I have a great many questions to ask you about
old friends, particularly your father."

"Stefan, can you not understand why I have permitted myself to leave
Hungary?"

He glanced at her deep mourning.

"Ah, is that so? Well, no one ever lived a braver life. And how he kept
up the old Hungarian traditions!--the house a hotel from month's end to
month's end: no questions asked but 'Are you a stranger? then my house
is yours.'"

He led the way down the stairs, chatting to this old friend of his; and
though Natalie was burning with impatience, she forced herself to be
silent. Was it not all in her favor that this member of the mysterious
Council should recur to these former days, and remind himself of his
intimacy with her family? She followed them in silence: he seemed to
have forgotten her existence.

They passed through the court-yard, and down some broad steps. The true
front of the building was on this seaward side--a huge mass of pink,
with green casements. From the broad stone steps a series of terraces,
prettily laid out, descended to a lawn; but, instead of passing down
that way, the tall, soldierly-looking man led his companion by a
side-flight of steps, which enabled them to enter an _allee_ cut through
a mass of olives and orange and lemon trees. There were fig-trees along
the wall by the side of this path; a fountain plashed coolly out there
on the lawn, and beyond the opening showed the deep blue of the sea,
with the clear waves breaking whitely on the shores.

They sat down on a garden-seat; and Natalie, sitting next her mother,
waited patiently and breathlessly, scarcely hearing all this talk about
old companions and friends.

At last the general said,

"Now about the business that brought you here: is it serious?"

"Oh yes, very," the mother said, with some color of excitement appearing
in her worn face; "it is a friend of ours in England: he has been
charged by the Society with some duty that will cost him his life; we
have come to intercede for him--to ask you to save him. For the sake of
old times, Stefan--"

"Wait a moment," said the other, looking grave. "Do you mean the
Englishman?"

"Yes, yes; the same."

"And who has told you what it is purposed to have done?" he asked, with
quite a change in his manner.

"No one," she answered, eagerly; "we guess that it is something of great
danger."

"And if that is so, are you unfamiliar with persons having to incur
danger? Why not an Englishman as well as another? This is an
extraordinary freak of yours, Natalie; I cannot understand it. And to
have come so far when any one in England--any one of us, I mean--could
have told you it was useless."

"But why useless, if you are inclined to interfere?" she said, boldly,
"and I think my father's family have some title to consideration."

"My old friend," said he, in a kindly way, "what is there in the world I
would not do for you if it were within my power? But this is not. What
you ask is, to put the matter shortly, impossible--impossible!"

In the brief silence that followed the mother heard a slight sigh: she
turned instantly, and saw her daughter, as white as death, about to
fall. She caught her in her arms with a slight cry of alarm.

"Here, Stefan, take my handkerchief--dip it in the water--quick!"

The huge, bullet-headed man strode across the lawn to the fountain. As
he returned, and saw before him the white-lipped, unconscious girl, who
was supported in her mother's arms, he said to himself, "Now I
understand."

CHAPTER XLVIII.

AN APPEAL.

This sudden and involuntary confession of alarm and despair no doubt
told her story more clearly than anything else could have done. General
von Zoesch as he chose to call himself, was excessively concerned; he
held her hand till he saw the life returning to the pale, beautiful
face: he was profuse and earnest in his apologies.

"My dear young lady I beg a thousand pardons!--I had no idea of alarming
you; I had no idea you were so deeply interested; come, take my arm, and
we will walk down into the open, where the sea-air is cool. I beg a
thousand pardons."

She had pulled herself together with a desperate effort of will.

"You spoke abruptly, signore; you used the word _impossible_! I had
imagined it was unknown to you."

Her lips were rather pale; but there was a flush of color returning to
her face, and her voice had something of the old proud and pathetic ring
in it.

"Yes," she continued, standing-before him, with her eyes downcast, "I
was told that when great trouble came upon me or mine I was to come
here--to Naples--and I should find myself under the protection of the
greatest power in Europe. My name--my mother's name--was to be enough.
And this is the result, that a brave man, who is our friend and dear to
us, is threatened with a dishonorable death, and the very power that
imposed it on him--the power that was said to be invincible, and wise,
and generous--is unable or unwilling to stir hand or foot!"

"A dishonorable death, signorina?"

"Oh, signore," she said, with a proud indignation, "do not speak to me
as if I were a child. Cannot one see what is behind all this secrecy?
Cannot one see that you know well what has been done in England by your
friends and colleagues? You put this man, who is too proud, too noble,
to withdraw from his word, on a service that involves the certain
sacrifice of his life! and there is no honor attached to this
sacrifice--so he himself has admitted. What does that mean?--what can it
mean--but assassination?"

He drew back his head a little bit, as if startled, and stared at her.

"My dear young lady--"

But her courage had not returned to her for nothing. She raised the
beautiful, dark, pathetic eyes, and regarded him with an indignant
fearlessness.

"That is what any one might guess," she said. "But there is more.
Signore, you and your friends meditate the assassination of the King of
Italy! and you call on an Englishman--an Englishman who has no love of
secret and blood-stained ways--"

"Stefan!" the mother cried, quickly, and she placed her hand on the
general's arm; "do not be angry. Do not heed her--she is a child--she is
quick to speak. Believe me, there are other reasons for our coming to
you."

"Yes, yes, my friend Natalie; all in good time. But I am most anxious to
put myself right with the signorina your daughter first of all. Now, my
dear young lady," he said, taking her hand, and putting it on his arm,
and gently compelling her to walk with him toward the opener space where
the sea-air was cool, "I again apologize to you for having spoken
unwittingly--"

"Oh, signore, do not trouble about that! It is no matter of courtesy or
politeness that is in the question: it is the life of one of one's
dearest friends. There are other times for politeness."

"Stefan," the mother interposed, anxiously, "do not heed her--she is
agitated."

"My dear Natalie," said the general, smiling, "I admire a brave woman
as I admire a brave man. Do not I recognize another of you Berezolyis?
The moment you think one of your friends is being wronged, fire and
water won't prevent you from speaking out. No, no, my dear young lady,"
he said, turning to the daughter, "you cannot offend me by being loyal
and outspoken."

He patted her hand, just as Calabressa had done.

"But I must ask you to listen for a moment, to remove one or two
misconceptions. It is true I know something of the service which your
English friend has undertaken to perform. Believe me, it has nothing to
do with the assassination of the King of Italy--nothing in the world."

She lifted her dark eyes for a second, and regarded him steadily.

"I perceive," said he, "that you pay me the compliment of asking me if I
lie. I do not. Reassure yourself: there are no people in this country
more loyal to the present dynasty than my friends and myself. We have no
time for wild Republican projects."

She looked somewhat bewildered. This speculation as to the possible
nature of the service demanded of George Brand had been the outcome of
many a night's anxious self-communing; and she had indulged in the wild
hope that this man, when abruptly challenged, might have been startled
into some avowal. For then, would not her course have been clear enough?
But now she was thrown back on her former perplexity, with only the one
certainty present to her mind--the certainty of the danger that
confronted her lover.

"My dear young lady," he said, "it is useless for you to ask what that
service is, for I shall refuse to answer you. But I assure you that you
have my deepest sympathy, and I have seen a good deal of suffering from
similar causes. I do not seek to break into your confidence, but I think
I understand your position; you will believe me that it is with no light
heart that I must repeat the word _impossible_. Need I reason with you?
Need I point out to you that there is scarcely any one in the world whom
we might select for a dangerous duty who would not have some one who
would suffer on his account? Who is without some tie of affection that
must be cut asunder--no matter with what pain--when the necessity for
the sacrifice arises? You are one of the unhappy ones; you must be
brave; you must try to forget your sufferings, as thousands of wives and
sweethearts and daughters have had to forget, in thinking that their
relatives and friends died in a good cause."

Her heart was proud and indignant no longer; it had grown numbed. The
air from the sea felt cold.

"I am helpless, signore," she murmured; "I do not know what the cause
is. I do not know what justification you have for taking this man's
life."

He did not answer that. He said,

"Perhaps, indeed, it is not those who are called on to sacrifice their
life for the general good who suffer most. They can console themselves
with thinking of the result. It is their friends--those dearest to
them--who suffer, and who many a time would no doubt be glad to become
their substitutes. It is true that we--that is, that many
associations--recognize the principle of the vicarious performance of
duties and punishments; but not any one yet has permitted a woman to
become substitute for a man."

"What made you think of that, signore?" she asked, regarding him.

"I have known some cases," he said, evasively, "where such an offer, I
think, would have been made."

"It could not be accepted?"

"Oh no."

"Not even by the power that is the greatest in Europe?" she said,
bitterly--"that is invincible and all-generous? Oh, signore, you are too
modest in your pretensions! And the Berezolyis--they have done nothing,
then, in former days to entitle them to consideration; they are but as
anybody in the crowd who might come forward and intercede for a friend;
they have no old associates, then, and companions in this Society, that
they cannot have this one thing granted them--that they cannot get this
one man's life spared to him! Signore, your representatives mistake your
powers; more than that, they mistake the strength of your memory, and
your friendship!"

The red face of the bullet-headed general grew redder still, but not
with anger.

"Signorina," he said, evidently greatly embarrassed, "you humiliate me.
You--you do not know what you ask--"

He had led her back to the garden-seat; they had both sat down; he did
not notice how her bosom was struggling with emotion.

"You ask me to interfere--to commit an act of injustice--"

"Oh, signore, signore, this is what I ask!" she cried, quite overcome;
and she fell at his feet, and put her clasped hands on his knees, and
broke into a wild fit of crying; "this is what I ask of you,
signore--this is what I beg from you on my knees--I ask you to give me
the life of--of my betrothed!"

She buried her face in her hands; her frame was shaken with her sobs.

"Little daughter," said he, greatly agitated, "rise; come, remain here
for a few moments; I wish to speak to your mother--alone. Natalie!"

The elder woman accompanied him a short distance across the lawn; they
stood by the fountain.

"By Heaven, I would do anything for the child!" he said, rapidly; "but
you see, dear friend, how it is impossible. Look at the injustice of it.
If we transferred this duty to another person, what possible excuse
could we make to him whom we might choose?"

He was looking back at the girl.

"It will kill her, Stefan," the mother said.

"Others have suffered also."

The elder woman seemed to collect herself a little.

"But I told you we had not said everything to you. The poor child is in
despair; she has not thought of all the reasons that induced us to come
to you. Stefan, you remember my cousin Konrad?"

"Oh yes, I remember Konrad well enough," said the general, absently, for
he was still regarding the younger Natalie, who sat on the bench, her
hands clasped, her head bent down. "Poor fellow, he came to a sad end at
last; but he always carried his life in his hands, and with a gay heart
too."

"But you remember, do you not, something before that?" the mother said,
with some color coming into her face. "You remember how my husband had
him chosen--and I myself appealed--and you, Stefan, you were among the
first to say that the Society must inquire--"

"Ah, but that was different, Natalie. You know why it was that that
commission had to be reversed."

"Do I know? Yes. What else have I had to think about these sixteen or
seventeen years since my child was separated from me?" she said, sadly.
"And perhaps I have grown suspicious; perhaps I have grown mad to think
that what has happened once might happen again."

"What?" he said, turning his clear blue eyes suddenly on her.

She did not flinch.

"Consider the circumstances, Stefan, and say whether one has no reason
to suspect. The Englishman, this Mr. Brand, loves Natalie; she loves him
in return; my husband refuses his consent to the marriage; and yet they
meet in opposition to his wishes. Then there is another thing that I
cannot so well explain, but it is something about a request on my
husband's part that Mr. Brand, who is a man of wealth, should accept a
certain offer, and give over his property to the funds of the Society."

"I understand perfectly," her companion said, calmly. "Well?"

"Well, Mr. Brand, thinking of Natalie's future, refuses. But consider
this, Stefan, that it had been hinted to him before that in case of his
refusal, he might be sent to America to remain there for life."

"I perceive, my old friend, that you are reading in your own
interpretations into an ordinary matter of business. However--"

"But his refusal was immediately followed by that arrangement. He was
ordered to go to America. My husband, no doubt considered that that
would effectually separate him and Natalie--"

"Again you are putting in your own interpretation."

"One moment, Stefan. My child is brave; she thought an injustice was
being done; she thought it was for her sake that her lover was being
sent away, and then she spoke frankly; she said she would go with him."

"Yes?" He was now listening with more interest.

"You perceive then, my dear friend, my husband was thwarted in every
way. Then it was, and quite suddenly, that he reversed this arrangement
about America, and there fell on Mr. Brand this terrible thing. Knowing
what I know, do you not think I had fair cause for suspicion? And when
Natalie said, 'Oh, there are those abroad who will remove this great
trouble from us,' then I said to myself, 'At all events, the Society
does not countenance injustice; it will see that right has been done.'"

The face of the man had grown grave, and for some time he did not speak.

"I see what you suggest, Natalie," he said at length. "It is a serious
matter. I should have said your suspicions were idle--that the thing was
impossible--but for the fact that it has occurred before. Strange, now,
if old ----, whose wisdom and foresight the world is beginning to
recognize now, should be proved to be wise on this point too, as on so
many others. He used always to say to us: 'When once you find a man
unfaithful, never trust him after. When once a man has allowed himself
to put his personal advantage before his duty to such a society as
yours, it shows that somewhere or other there is in him the leaven of a
self-seeker, which is fatal to all societies. Impose the heaviest
penalties on such an offence; cast him out when you have the
opportunity.' It would be strange, indeed; it would be like fate; it
would appear as though the thing were in the blood, and must come out,
no matter what warning the man may have had before. You know, Natalie,
what your husband had to endure for his former lapse?"

She nodded her head.

For some time he was again silent, and there was a deeper air of
reflection on his face than almost seemed natural to it, for he looked
more of a soldier than a thinker.

"If there were any formality," he said, almost to himself, "in the
proceedings, one might have just cause to intervene. But your husband,
my Natalie," he continued, addressing her directly, "is well trusted by
us. He has done us long and faithful service. We should be slow to put
any slight upon him, especially that of suspicion."

"That, Stefan," said Natalie's mother, with courage, "is a small matter,
surely, compared with the possibility of your letting this man go to his
death unjustly. You would countenance, then, an act of private revenge?
That is the use you would let the powers of your Society be put to? That
is not what Janecki, what Rausch, what Falevitch looked forward to."

The taunt was quite lost on him; he was calmly regarding Natalie. She
had not stirred. After that one outburst of despairing appeal there was
no more for her to say or to do. She could wait, mutely, and hear what
the fate of her lover was to be.

"Unfortunately," said the general, turning and looking up at the vast
pink frontage of the villa, "There are no papers here that one can
appeal to. I only secured the temporary use of the villa, as being a
more fitting place than some to receive the signorina your daughter. But
it is possible the Secretary may remember something; he has a good
memory. Will you excuse me, Natalie, for a few moments?"

He strode away toward the house. The mother went over to her daughter,
and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Courage, Natalushka! You must not despair yet. Ah, my old friend Stefan
has a kind heart; there were tears in his eyes when he turned away from
your appeal to him. He does not forget old associates."

Von Zoesch almost immediately returned, still looking preoccupied. He
drew Natalie's mother aside a few steps, and said,

"This much I may tell you, Natalie: in the proceedings four were
concerned--your husband, Mr. Brand, Beratinsky, Reitzei. What do you
know of these last two?"

"I? Alas, Stefan, I know nothing of them!"

"And we here little. They are your husband's appointment. I may also
tell you, Natalie, that the Secretary is also of my opinion, that it is
very unlikely your husband would be so audacious as to repeat his
offence of former years, by conspiring to fix this duty on this man to
serve his own interests. It would be too audacious, unless his temper
had outrun his reason altogether."

"But you must remember, Stefan," she said, eagerly, "that there was no
one in England who knew that former story. He could not imagine that I
was to be, unhappily, set free to go to my daughter--that I should be at
her side when this trouble fell on her--"

"Nevertheless," said he, gently interrupting her, "you have appealed to
us: we will inquire. It will be a delicate affair. If there has been any
complicity, any unfairness, to summon these men hither would be to make
firmer confederates of them than ever. If one could get at them
separately, individually--"

He kept pressing his white mustache into his teeth with his forefinger.

"If Calabressa were not such a talker," he said, absently. "But he has
ingenuity, the feather-brained devil."

"Stefan, I could trust everything to Calabressa," she said.

"In the mean time," he said, "I will not detain you. If you remain at
the same hotel we shall be able to communicate with you. I presume your
carriage is outside?"

"It is waiting for us a little way off."

He accompanied them into the tessellated court-yard, but not to the
gate. He bade good-bye to his elder friend; then he took the younger
lady's hand and held it, and regarded her.

"Figliuola mia," he said, with a kindly glance, "I pity you if you have
to suffer. We will hope for better things: if it is impossible, you have
a brave heart."

When they had left he went up the marble staircase and along the empty
corridor until he reached a certain room.

"Granaglia, can you tell me where our friend Calabressa may happen to be
at this precise moment?"

"At Brindisi, I believe, Excellenza."

"At Brindisi still. The devil of a fellow is not so impatient as I had
expected. Ah, well. Have the goodness to send for him, friend Granaglia,
and bid him come with speed."

"Most willingly, Excellenza."

CHAPTER XLIX.

AN EMISSARY.

One warm, still afternoon Calabressa was walking quickly along the
crowded quays of Naples, when he was beset by a more than usually
importunate beggar--a youth of about twelve, almost naked.

"Something for bread, signore--for the love of God--my father taken to
heaven, my mother starving--bread, signore--"

"To the devil with you!" said Calabressa.

"May you burst!" replied the polite youth, and he tried to kick
Calabressa's legs and make off at the same time.

This feat he failed in, so that, as he was departing, Calabressa hit him
a cuff on the side of the head which sent him rolling. Then there was a
howl, and presently there was a universal tumult of women, calling out,
"Ah, the German! ah, the foreigner!" and so forth, and drawing
threateningly near. Calabressa sought in his pockets for a handful of
small copper coins, turned, threw them high in the air, and did not stay
to watch the effect of the shower on the heads of the women, but walked
quietly away.

However, in thus suddenly turning, he had caught sight--even with his
near-sighted eyes--of an unwholesome-looking young man, pale,
clean-shaven, with bushy black hair, whom he recognized. He appeared to
pay no attention, but walked quickly on. Taking one or two unnecessary
turnings, he became convinced that the young man, as he had suspected,
was following him: then, without more ado, and even without looking
behind him, he set out for his destination, which was Posilipo.

In due course of time he began to ascend the wooded hill with its villas
and walls and cactus-hedges. At a certain turning, where he could not be
observed by any one behind him, he turned sharp off to the left, and
stood behind a wooden gate; a couple of minutes afterward the young man
came along, more rapidly now, for he no doubt fancied that Calabressa
had disappeared ahead.

Calabressa stepped out from his hiding-place, went after him, and tapped
him on the shoulder. He turned, stared, and endeavored to appear angry
and astonished.

"Oh yes, to be sure," said Calabressa, with calm sarcasm, "at your
disposition, signore. So we were not satisfied with selling photographs
and pebbles to the English on board the steamer; we want to get a little
Judas money; we sell ourselves to the weasels, the worms, the vermin--"

"Oh, I assure you, signore--" the shaven-faced youth exclaimed, much
more humbly.

"Oh, I assure you too, signore," Calabressa continued, facetiously. "And
you, you poor innocent, you have not been with the weasels six weeks
when you think you will try your nose in tracking me. Body of Bacchus,
it is too insolent!"

"I assure you, signore--"

"Now, behold this, my friend: we must give children like you a warning.
If you had been a little older, and not quite so foolish, I should have
had you put on the Black List of my friends the Camorristi--you
understand? But you--we will cure you otherwise. You know the
Englishman's yacht that has come into the Great Harbor--"

"Signore, I beg of you--"

"Beg of the devil!" said Calabressa, calmly. "Between the Englishman's
yacht and the Little Mole you will find a schooner moored--her name. _La
Svezia_; do not forget--_La Svezia_. To-morrow you will go on board of
her, ask for the captain, go down below, and beg him to be so kind as to
give you twelve stripes--"

"Signore--"

"Another word, _mouchard_, and I make it twenty. He will give you a
receipt, which you will sign, and bring to me; otherwise, down goes your
name on the list. Which do you prefer? Oh, we will teach some of you
young weasels a lesson! I have the honor to wish you a good morning."

Calabressa touched his hat politely, and walked on, leaving the young
man petrified with rage and fear.

By-and-by he began to walk more leisurely and with more circumspection,
keeping a sharp lookout, as well as his near-sighted eyes allowed, on
any passer-by or vehicle he happened to meet. At length, and with the
same precautions he had used on a former occasion, he entered the
grounds of the villa he had sought out in the company of Gathorne
Edwards, and made his way up to the fountain on the little plateau. But
now his message had been previously prepared; he dropped it into the
receptacle concealed beneath the lip of the fountain, and then descended
the steep little terraces until he got round to the entrance of the
grotto.

Instead of passing in by this cleft in the rockwork, however, he found
awaiting him there the person who had summoned him--the so-called
General Von Zoesch. Calabressa was somewhat startled, but he said, "Your
humble servant, Excellenza," and removed his cap.

"Keep your hat on your head, friend Calabressa," said the other,
good-naturedly; "you are as old as I am."

He seated himself on a projecting ledge of the rockwork, and motioned to
Calabressa to do likewise on the other side of the entrance. They were
completely screened from observation by a mass of olive and fig trees,
to say nothing of the far-stretching orange shrubbery beyond.

"The Council have paid you a high compliment, my Calabressa," the
general said, plunging at once into the matter. "They have resolved to
intrust you with a very difficult mission."

"It is a great honor."

"You won't have to risk your neck, which will no doubt disappoint you,
but you will have to show us whether there is the stuff of a diplomatist
in you."

"Oh, as for that, Excellenza," Calabressa said confidently, "one can be
a _bavard_ at times, for amusement, for nonsense; and one can at times
be silent when there is necessity."

"You know of the affair of Zaccatelli. The agent has been found, as we
desired in England. I understand you know him; his name is Brand."

Calabressa uttered an exclamation.

"Excellenza, do you know what you have said? You pierce my heart. Why he
of all those in England? He is the betrothed of Natalie's daughter--the
Natalie Berezolyi, Excellenza, who married Ferdinand Lind--"

"I know it," said the other, calmly. "I have seen the young lady. She is
a beautiful child."

"She is more than that--she is a beautiful-souled child!" said
Calabressa, in great agitation, "and she has a tender heart. I tell you
it will kill her, Excellenza! Oh, it is infamous! it is not to be
thought of!" He jumped to his feet and spoke in a rapid, excited way. "I
say it is not to be thought of. I appeal--I, Calabressa--to the
honorable the members of the Council: I say that I am ready to be his
substitute--they cannot deny me--I appeal to the laws of the
Society--"'

"Calm yourself--calm yourself," said the general; but Calabressa would
not be calm.

"I will not have my beautiful child have this grief put upon her!--you,
Excellenza, will help my appeal to the Council--they cannot refuse
me--what use am I to anybody or myself? I say that the daughter of my
old friend Natalie shall not have her lover taken from her; it is I,
Calabressa, who claim to be his substitute!"

"Friend Calabressa, I desire you to sit down and listen. The story is
brief that I have to tell you. This man Brand is chosen by the usual
ballot. The young lady does not know for what duty, of course, but
believes it will cost him his life. She is in trouble; she recollects
your giving her some instructions; what does she do but start off at
once for Naples, to put her head right into the den of the black bear
Tommaso!"

"Ah, the brave little one! She did not forget Calabressa and the little
map, then?"

"I have seen her and her mother."

"Her mother, also? Here, in Naples, now?"

"Yes."

"Great Heaven! What a fool I was to come through Naples and not to
know--but I was thinking of that little viper."

"You will now be good enough to listen, my Calabressa."

"I beg your Excellency's pardon a thousand times."

"It appears that both mother and daughter are beset with the suspicion
that this duty has been put upon their English friend by unfair means.
At first I said to myself these suspicions were foolish; they now appear
to me more reasonable. You, at all events, are acquainted with the old
story against Ferdinand Lind; you know how he forfeited his life to the
Society; how it was given back to him. You would think it impossible he
would risk such another adventure. Well, perhaps I wrong him; but there
is a possibility; there are powerful reasons, I can gather, why he
should wish to get rid of this Englishman."

Calabressa said nothing now, but he was greatly excited.

"We had been urging him about money, Calabressa mio--that I will explain
to you. It has been coming in slowest of all from England, the richest
of the countries, and just when we had so much need. Then, again, there
is a vacancy in the Council, and Lind has a wish that way. What happens?
He tries to induce the Englishman to take an officership and give us
his fortune; the Englishman refuses; he says then, 'Part from my
daughter, and go to America.' The daughter says, 'If he goes, I follow.'
You perceive, my friend, that if this story is true, and it is
consecutive and minute as I received it, there was a reason for our
colleague Lind to be angry, and to be desirous of making it certain that
this Englishman who had opposed him should not have his daughter."

"I perceive it well, Excellenza. Meanwhile?"

"Meanwhile, that is all. Only, when an old friend--when one who has such
claims on our Society as a Berezolyi naturally has--comes and tells you
such a story, you listen with attention and respect. You may believe, or
you may not believe; one prefers not to believe when the matter touches
upon the faith of a colleague who has been trustworthy for many years.
But at the same time, if the Council, being appealed to, and being
anxious above all things that no wrong should be done, were to find an
agent--prudent, silent, cautious--who might be armed with plenary powers
of pardon, for example, supposing there were an accomplice to be
bribed--if the Council were to commission such a one as you, my
Calabressa, to institute inquiries, and perhaps to satisfy those two
appellants that no injustice has been done, you would undertake the task
with diligence, with a sense of responsibility, would you not?"

"With joy--with a full heart, Excellenza!" Calabressa exclaimed.

"Oh no, not at all--with prudence and disinterestedness; with calmness
and no prejudice; and, above all, with a resolution to conceal from our
friend and colleague Lind that any slight of suspicion is being put upon
him."

"Oh, you can trust me, Excellenza!" Calabressa said, eagerly.

"Let me do this for the sake of the sweetheart of my old age--that is
that beautiful-souled little one; and if I cannot bring her peace and
security one way--mind, I go without prejudice--I swear to you I go
without bias--I will harm no one even in intention--but this I say, that
if I fail that way there is another."

"You have seen the two men, Beratinsky and Reitzei, who were of the
ballot along with Lind and the Englishman. To me they are but names.
Describe them to me."

"Beratinsky," said Calabressa, promptly, "a bear--surly, pig-headed;
Reitzei, a fop--sinuous, petted."

"Which would be the more easily started, for example?" the tall man
said, with a smile.

"Oh, your Excellency, leave that to me," Calabressa answered. "Give me
no definite instructions: am I not a volunteer?--can I not do as I
please, always with the risk that one may knock me over the head if I am
impertinent?"

"Well, then, if you leave it to your discretion, friend Calabressa, to
your ingenuity, and your desire to have justice without bias, have you
money?"

"Not at all, Excellenza."

"The Secretary Granaglia will communicate with you this evening. You can
start at once?"

"By the direct train to-morrow morning at seven. Excellenza." Then he
added, "Oh, the devil!"

"What now?"

"There was a young fellow, Excellenza, committed the imprudence of
dogging my footsteps this afternoon. I know him. I stopped him and
referred him to the captain of the schooner _La Svezia_: he was to bring
me the receipt to morrow."

"Never mind," said the general, laughing; "we will look after him when
he goes on board. Now do you understand, friend Calabressa, the great
delicacy of the mission the Council have intrusted to you? You must be
patient, sure, unbiassed; and if, as I imagine, Lind and you were not
the best of friends at one time in your life, you must forget all that.
You are not going as the avenger of his daughter; you are going as the
minister of justice--only you have power behind you; that you can allow
to be known indirectly. Do you understand?"

"It is as clear as the noonday skies. Confide in me, Excellenza." The
other rose.

"Use speed, my Calabressa. Farewell!"

"One word, Excellenza. If it is not too great a favor, the hotel where
my beautiful Natalushka and her mother are staying?"

The other gave him the name of the hotel; and Calabressa, saluting him
respectfully, departed, making his way down through the terraces of
fruit-trees under the clear twilight skies.

Calabressa walked back to Naples, and to the hotel indicated, which was
near the Castello dell' Ovo. No sooner had the hotel porter opened for
him the big swinging doors than he recollected that he did not know for
whom he ought to ask; but at this moment Natalie came along the
corridor, dressed and ready to go out.

"My little daughter!" he exclaimed, taking her by both hands, "did not
I say you would soon find me when there was need?"

"Will you come up-stairs and see my mother, Signor Calabressa?" said
she. "You know why she and I are together now?--my grandfather is dead."

"Yes, I will go and see your mother," said he, after a second: she did
not notice the strange expression of his face during that brief
hesitation.

There was a small sitting-room between the two bedrooms; Natalie
conducted him into it, and went into the adjoining chamber for her
mother. A minute after these two friends and companions of former days
met. They held each other's hand in silence for a brief time.

"My hair was not so gray when you last saw me," the worn-faced woman
said, at length, with a smile.

Calabressa could not speak at all.

"Mother," the girl said, to break in on this painful embarrassment, "you
have not seen Signor Calabressa for so long a time. Will he not stay and
dine with us? the _table-d'hote_, is at half-past six."

"Not the _table-d'hote_, my little daughter," Calabressa said. "But if
one were permitted to remain here, for example--"

"Oh yes, certainly."

"There are many things I wish to speak about; and so little time.
To-morrow morning I start for England."

"For England?"

"Most certainly, little daughter. And you have a message, perhaps, for
me to carry? Oh, you may let it be cheerful," he said, with his usual
gay optimism. "I tell you--I myself, and I do not boast--let it be
cheerful! What did I say to you? You are in trouble; I said to you,
count upon having friends!"

Calabressa did stay; and they had a kind of meal in this room; and there
was a great deal to talk over between the two old friends. But on all
matters referring to the moment he preserved a resolute silence. He was
not going to talk at the very outset. He was going to England--that was
all.

But as he was bidding good-bye to Natalie, he drew her a step or two
into the passage.

"Little child," said he, in a low voice, "your mother is suffering
because of your sorrow. It is needless. I assure you all will be well:
have I spoken in vain before? It is not for one bearing the name that
you have to despair."

"Good-bye, then, Signor Calabressa."

"_Au revoir_, child: is not that better?"

CHAPTER L.

A WEAK BROTHER.

George Brand was sitting alone in these rooms of his, the lamps lit, the
table near him covered with papers. He had just parted with two
visitors--Molyneux and a certain learned gentleman attached to Owens
College--who had come to receive his final plans and hints as to what
still lay before them in the north. On leaving, the fresh-colored,
brisk-voiced Molyneux had said to him,

"Well, Mr. Brand, seeing you so eager about what has to be done up
there, one might wonder at your leaving us and going off pleasuring. But
no matter; a man must have his holiday; so I wish you a pleasant
journey, and we'll do our best till you come back."

So that also was settled. In fact, he had brought all his affairs up to
a point that would enable him to start at any moment. But about Natalie?
He had not heard from her through any channel whatever. He had not the
least idea whither she had gone. Moreover, he gathered from Reitzei that
her father--who, in Reitzei's opinion, could at once have discovered
where she was--refused to trouble himself in the matter, and, indeed,
would not permit her name to be mentioned in his presence.

He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. Of what value to him now were
these carefully calculated suggestions about districts, centres,
conveners, and what not? And yet he had appeared deeply interested while
his two visitors were present. For the time being the old eagerness had
stirred him; the pride he had taken in his own work. But now that was
passed from him; he had relinquished his stewardship; and as he absently
gazed out into the black night before him, his thoughts drifted far
away. He was startled from his reverie by some one knocking at the door.
Immediately after Gathorne Edwards entered.

"Waters said I should find you alone," said the tall, pale, blue-eyed
student. "I have come to you about Kirski."

"Sit down. Well?"

"It's a bad business," he said, taking a chair, and looking rather
gloomy and uncomfortable. "He has taken to drink badly. I have been to
him, talked to him, but I have no influence over him, apparently. I
thought perhaps you might do something with him."

"Why, I cannot even speak to him!"

"Oh, he is accustomed to make much out of a few words; and I would go
with you."

"But what is the occasion of all this? How can he have taken to drink in
so short a time?"

"A man can drink himself into a pretty queer state in a very short time
when he sets his mind to it," Edwards said. "He has given up his work
altogether, and is steadily boozing away the little savings he had made.
He has gone back to his blood and kill, too; wants some one to go with
him to murder that fellow out in Russia who first of all took his wife,
and then beat him and set dogs on him. The fact is, Calabressa's cure
has gone all to bits."

"It is a pity. The unfortunate wretch has had enough trouble. But what
is the cause of it?"

"It is rather difficult to explain," said Edwards with some
embarrassment. "One can only guess, for his brain is muddled, and he
maunders. You know Calabressa's flowery, poetical interpretation. It was
Miss Lind, in fact, who had worked a miracle. Well, there was something
in it. She was kind to him, after he had been cuffed about Europe, and a
sort of passion of gratitude took possession of him. Then he was led to
believe at that time that--that he might be of service to her or her
friends, and he gave up his projects of revenge altogether--he was ready
for any sacrifice--and, in fact, there was a project--" Edwards glanced
at his companion; but Brand happened at that moment to be looking out of
the window.

"Well, you see, all that fell through; and he had to come back to
England disappointed; then there was no Calabressa to keep him up to his
resolutions: besides that, he found out--how, I do not know--that Miss
Lind had left London."

"Oh, he found that out?"

"Apparently. And he says he is of no further use to anybody; and all he
wants is to kill the man Michaieloff, and then make an end of himself."

Brand rose at once.

"We must go and see the unfortunate devil, Edwards. His brain never was
steady, you know, and I suppose even two or three days' hard drinking
has made him wild again. And just as I had prepared a little surprise
for him!"

"What?" Edwards asked, as he opened the door.

"I have made him a little bequest that would have produced him about
twenty pounds a year, to pay his rent. It will be no kindness to give it
to him until we see him straight again."

But Edwards pushed the door to again, and said in a low voice,

"Of course, Mr. Brand, you must know of the Zaccatelli affair?"

Brand regarded him, and said, calmly,

"I do. There are five men in England who know of it; you and I are two
of them."

"Well," said Edwards, eagerly, "if such a thing were determined on,
wouldn't it have been better to let this poor wretch do it? He would
have gloried in it; he had the enthusiasm of the martyr just then; he
thought he was to be allowed to do something that would make Miss Lind
and her friends forever grateful to him."

"And who put it into his head that Miss Lind knew anything about
it?--Calabressa, I suppose."

Edwards colored slightly.

"Well, yes--"

"And it was Calabressa who intrusted such a secret as that to a
maniac--"

"Pardon me, Kirski never knew specifically what lay before him; but he
was ready for anything. For my own part, I was heartily glad when they
sent him back to England. I did not wish to have any hand in such a
business, however indirectly; and, indeed, I hope they have abandoned
the whole project by this time."

"It might be wiser, certainly," said Brand, with an indifferent air.

"If they go on with it, it will make a fearful noise in Europe," said
Edwards, contemplatively. "The assassination of a cardinal! Well, his
life has been scandalous enough--but still, his death, in such a way--"

"It will horrify people, will it not?" Brand said, calmly; "and his
murderer will be execrated and howled at throughout Europe, no doubt!"

"Well, yes; you see, who is to know the motives?"

"There won't be a single person to say a single word for him," said
Brand, absently. "It is an enviable fate, isn't it, for some wretched
mortal? No matter, Edwards; we will go and look up this fellow Kirski
now."

They went out into the night--it was cold and drizzling--and made their
way up into Soho. They knocked at the door of a shabby-looking house;
and Kirski's landlady made her appearance. She was very angry when his
name was mentioned; of course he was not at home; they would find him in
some public-house or other--the animal!

"But he pays his rent, doesn't he?" Brand remonstrated.

Oh yes, he paid his rent. But she didn't like a wild beast in the house.
It was decent lodgings she kept; not a Wombwell's Menagerie.

"I am sure he gives you no trouble, ma'am," said Edwards, who had seen
something of the meek and submissive way the Russian conducted himself
in his lodgings.

This she admitted, but promptly asked how she was to know she mightn't
have her throat cut some night? And what was the use of her talking to
him, when he didn't know two words of a Christian language?

They gathered from this that the good woman had been lecturing her
docile lodger, and had been seriously hurt because of his inattention.
However, she at last consented to give them the name of the particular
public-house in which he was likely to be found, and they again set off
in quest of him.

They found him easily. He was seated in a corner of the crowded and
reeking bar-room by himself, nursing a glass of gin-and-water with his
two trembling hands. When they entered, he looked up and regarded them
with bleared, sunken eyes, evidently recognized them, and then turned
away sullenly.

"Tell him I am not come to bully him," said Brand quickly. "Tell him I
am come about some work. I want a cabinet made by a first-class workman
like himself."

Edwards went forward and put his hand on the man's shoulder and spoke to
him for some time; then he turned to Brand.

"He says, 'No use; no use.' He cannot work any more. They won't give him
help to kill Pavel Michaieloff. He wishes to die."

"Ask him, then, what the young lady who gave him her portrait will think
of him if she hears he is in this condition. Ask him how he has dared to
bring her portrait into a place like this."

When this was conveyed to Kirski, he seemed to arouse himself somewhat;
he even talked eagerly for a few seconds; then he turned away again, as
if he did not wish to be seen.

"He says," Edwards continued, "that he has not, that he would not bring
that portrait into any such place. He was afraid it might be found--it
might be taken from him. He made a small casket of oak, carved by his
own hands, and lined it with zinc; he put the photograph in it, and hid
himself in the trees of St. James's Park--at least, I imagine that St.
James's Park is what he means--at night. Then he buried it there. He
knows the place. When he has killed Michaieloff he will come back and
dig it up."

"The poor devil--his brain is certainly going, drink or no drink. What
is to be done with him, Edwards?"

"He says the young lady has gone away. He cares for nothing. He is of no
use. He despairs of getting enough money to take him back to Russia."

After a great deal of persuasion, however, they got him to leave the
public-house with them and return to his lodgings. They got him some tea
and some bread-and-butter, and made him swallow both. Then Edwards,
under his friend's instructions, proceeded to impress on Kirski that the
young lady was only away from London for a short time: that she would be
greatly distressed if she were to hear he had been misconducting
himself; that, if he returned to his work on the following morning, he
would find that his master would overlook his absence; and that finally,
he was to abandon his foolish notions about going to Russia, for he
would find no one to assist him; whereas, on the other hand, if he went
about proclaiming that he was about to commit a crime, he would be taken
by the police and shut up. All this, and a great deal more, they tried
to impress on him; and Edwards promised to call the next evening and see
how he was getting on.

It was late when Brand and Edwards again issued out into the wet night;
and Edwards, having promised to post a line to Kirski's employers, so
that they should get it in the morning, said good-bye, and went off to
his own lodgings. Brand walked slowly home through the muddy streets. He
preferred the glare and the noise to the solitude of his own rooms. He
even stood aimlessly to watch a theatre come out; the people seemed so
careless and joyous--calling to each other--making feeble jokes--passing
away under their umbrellas into the wet and shining darkness.

But at length, without any definite intention, he found himself at the
foot of the little thoroughfare in which he lived; and he was about to
open the door with his latch-key when out of the dusk beyond there
stepped forth a tall figure. He was startled, it is true, by the
apparition of this tall, white-haired man in the voluminous blue cloak,
the upturned hood of which half concealed his face, and he turned with a
sort of instinct of anger to face him.

"Monsieur mon frere, you have arrived at last!" said the stranger, and
instantly he recognized in the pronunciation of the French the voice of
Calabressa.

"What!" he said; "Calabressa?"

The other put a finger on his arm.

"Hush!" he said. "It is a great secret, my being here; I confide in
you. I would not wait in your rooms--my faith no! for I said to myself,
'What if he brings home friends who will know me, who will ask what the
devil Calabressa is doing in this country.'"

Brand had withdrawn his hand from the lock.

"Calabressa," he said, quickly, "you, if anybody knows, must know where
Natalie and her mother are. Tell me!"

"I will directly; but may I point out to you, my dear Monsieur Brand,
that it rains--that we might go inside? Oh yes, certainly, I will tell
you when we can say a word in secret, in comfort. But this devil of a
climate! What should I have done if I had not bought myself this cloak
in Paris? In Paris it was cold and wet enough; but one had nothing like
what you have here. Sapristi! my fingers are frozen."

Brand hurried him up-stairs, put him into an easy-chair, and stirred up
the fire.

"Now," said he, impatiently--"now, my dear Calabressa, your news!"

Calabressa pulled out a letter.

"The news--voila!"

Brand tore open the envelope; these were the contents:

"Dearest,--This is to adjure you not to leave England for the
present--not till you hear from me--or until we return. Have patience,
and hope. You are not forgotten. My mother sends you her blessing.

  Your Betrothed."

"But there is no address!" he exclaimed. "Where are they?"

"Where are they? It is no secret, do you see? They are in Naples."

"In Naples!"

"Oh, I assure you, my dear friend, it is a noble heart, a brave heart,
that loves you. Many a day ago I said to her, 'Little child, when you
are in trouble, go to friends who will welcome you; say you are the
daughter of Natalie Berezolyi; say to them that Calabressa sent you.'
And you thought she was in no trouble! Ah, did she not tell me of the
pretty home you had got for the poor mother who is my old friend? did
she not tell me how you thought they were to be comfortable there, and
take no heed of anything else? But you were mistaken. You did not know
her. She said,'My betrothed is in danger: I will take Calabressa at his
word: before any one can hinder me, or interfere, I will go and appeal,
in the name of my family, in the name of myself!' Ah, the brave child!"

"But appeal to whom?" said Brand, breathlessly.

"To the Council, my friend!" said Calabressa with exultation.

"But gracious heavens!" Brand cried, with his hand nervously clutching
the arm of his chair, "is the secret betrayed, then? Do they think I
will shelter myself behind a woman?"

"She could betray no secret," Calabressa said, triumphantly, "she
herself not knowing it, do you not perceive? But she could speak
bravely!"

"And the result?"

"Who knows what that may be? In the mean time, this is the result--I am
here!"

At another moment this assumption of dignity would have been
ludicrous; but Brand took no heed of the manner of his companion;
his heart was beating wildly. And even when his reason forced him to
see how little he could expect from this intervention--when he
remembered what a decree of the Council was, and how irrevocable the
doom he had himself accepted--still the thought uppermost in his
mind was not of his own safety or danger, but rather of her love and
devotion, her resolve to rescue him, her quick and generous impulse
that knew nothing of fear. He pictured her to himself in Naples,
calling upon this nameless and secret power, that every man around
him dreaded, to reverse its decision! And then the audacity of her
bidding him hope! He could not hope; he knew more than she did. But
his heart was full of love and of gratitude as he thought of her.

"My dear friend," said Calabressa, lowering his voice, "my errand is one
of great secrecy. I have a commission which I cannot altogether explain
to you. But in the mean time you will be so good as to give me--_in
extense_, with every particular--the little history of how you were
appointed to--to undertake a certain duty."

"Unfortunately, I cannot," Brand said, calmly; "these are things one is
not permitted to talk about."

"But I must insist on it, my dear friend."

"Then I must insist on refusing you."

"You are trustworthy. No matter: here is something which I think will
remove your suspicions, my good friend--or shall we not rather say your
scruples?"

He took from his pocket-book a card, and placed it somewhat
ostentatiously on the table. Brand examined it, and then stared at
Calabressa in surprise.

"You come with the authority of the Council?"

"By the goodness of Heaven," Calabressa exclaimed with a laugh, "you
have arrived at the truth this time!"

CHAPTER LI.

THE CONJURER.

There was no mistaking the fact that Calabressa had come armed with
ample authority from the Council, and yet it was with a strange
reluctance that Brand forced himself to answer the questions that
Calabressa proceeded to put to him. He had already accepted his doom.
The bitterness of it was over. He would rather have let the past be
forgotten altogether, and himself go forward blindly to the appointed
end. Why those needless explanations and admissions?

Moreover, Calabressa's questions, which had been thought over during
long railway journeys, were exceedingly crafty. They touched here and
there on certain small points, as if he were building up for himself a
story. But at last Brand said, by way of protest,

"Look here, Calabressa. I see you are empowered to ask me any questions
you like--and I am quite willing to answer--about the business of the
Council. But really, don't you see, I would rather not speak of private
matters. What can the Council want to know about Natalie Lind? Leave her
out of it, like a good fellow."

"Oh yes, my dear Monsieur Brand," said Calabressa, with a smile, "leave
her out of it, truly, when she has gone to the Council; when the Council
have said, 'Child, you have not appealed to us for nothing;' when it is
through her that I have travelled all through the cold and wet, and am
now sitting here. Remember this, my friend, that the beautiful
Natalushka is now a--what do you call it?--a _ward_" (Calabressa put
this word in English into the midst of his odd French), "and a _ward_ of
a sufficiently powerful court, I can assure you, monsieur! Therefore, I
say, I cannot leave the beautiful child out. She is of importance to me;
why am I here otherwise? Be considerate, my friend; it is not
impertinence; it is not curiosity."

Then he proceeded with his task; getting, in a roundabout, cunning,
shrewd way, at a pretty fair version of what had occurred. And he was
exceedingly circumspect. He endeavored, by all sorts of circumlocutions,
to hide from Brand the real drift of his inquiry. He would betray
suspicion of no one. His manner was calm, patient, almost indifferent.
All this time Brand's thoughts were far away. He was speaking to
Calabressa, but he was thinking of Naples.

But when they came to Brand's brief description of what took place in
Lisle Street on the night of the casting of the lot, Calabressa became
greatly excited, though he strove to appear perfectly calm.

"You are sure," he said, quickly, "that was precisely what happened?"

"As far as I know," said Brand, carelessly. "But why go into it? If I do
not complain, why should any one else?"

"Did I say that any one complained?" observed the astute Calabressa.

"Then why should any one wish to interfere? I am satisfied. You do not
mean to say, Calabressa, that any one over there thinks that I am
anxious to back out of what I have undertaken--that I am going down on
my knees and begging to be let off? Well, at all events, Natalie does
not think that," he added, as if it did not matter much what any other
thought.

Calabressa was silent; but his eyes were eager and bright, and he was
quickly tapping the palm of his left hand with the forefinger of the
right. Then he regarded Brand with a sharp, inquisitive look. Then he
jumped to his feet.

"Good-night, my friend," he said, hurriedly.

But Brand rose also, and sought to detain him.

"No, no, my good Calabressa, you are not going yet; you have kept me
talking for your amusement; now it is your turn. You have not yet told
me about Natalie and her mother."

"They are well--they are indeed well, I assure you," said Calabressa,
uneasily. He was clearly anxious to get away. By this time he had got
hold of his cloak and swung it round his shoulders.

"Calabressa, sit down, and tell me something about Natalie. What made
her undertake such a journey? Is she troubled? Is she sad? I thought her
life was full of interest now, her mother being with her."

Calabressa had got his cap, and had opened the door.

"Another time, dear Monsieur Brand, I will sit down and tell you all
about the beautiful, brave child, and my old friend her mother. Yes,
yes--another time--to-morrow--next day. At present one is overwhelmed
with affairs, do you see?"

So saying, he forced Brand to shake hands with him, and went out,
shutting the door behind him.

But no sooner had he got into the street than the eager, talkative,
impulsive nature of the man, so long confined, broke loose. He took no
heed that it was raining hard. He walked fast; he talked aloud to
himself in his native tongue, in broken interjectional phrases;
occasionally he made use of violent gestures, which were not lessened in
their effect by the swaying cape of his cloak.

"Ah, those English--those English!" he was excitedly saying--"such
children!--blue, clear eyes that see nothing--the devil! why should they
meddle in such affairs? To play at such a game!--fool's mate; scholar's
mate; asses and idiots' mate--they have scarcely got a pawn out, and
they are wondering what they will do, when whizz! along comes the queen,
and she and the bishop have finished all the fine combinations before
they were ever begun! And you, you others, imps of hell, to play that
old foolish game again! But take care, my friends, take care; there is
one watching you, one waiting for you, who does not speak, but who
strikes! Ah, it is a pretty game; you, you sullen brute; you, you fop
and dandy; but when you are sitting silent round the board, behold a
dagger flashes down and quivers into the wood! No wonder your eyes burn!
you do not know whence it has come? But the steel-blade quivers; is it a
warning?"

He laughed aloud, but there were still omnibuses and cabs in the street;
so he was not heard. Indeed, the people who were on the pavement were
hurrying past to get out of the rain, and took no notice of the old
albino in the voluminous cloak.

"Natalushka," said he, quite as if he were addressing some one before
him, "do you know that I am trudging through the mud of this infernal
city all for you? And you, little sybarite, are among the fine ladies of
the reading-room at the hotel, and listening to music, and the air all
scented around you. Never mind; if only I had a little bird that could
fly to you with a message--ah, would you not have pleasant dreams
to-night? Did I not tell you to rely on Calabressa? He chatters to you;
he tries to amuse you; but he is not always Policinella. No, not always
Policinella: sometimes he is silent and cunning; sometimes--what do you
think?--he is a conjurer. Oh yes, you are not seen, you are not heard;
but when you have them round the board, whirr! comes the gleaming blade
and quivers in the wood! You look round; the guilty one shakes with the
palsy; his wits go; his startled tongue confesses. Then you laugh; you
say, 'That is well done;' you say, 'Were they wrong in giving this
affair to Calabressa?'"

Now, whether it was that his rapid walking helped to relieve him of this
over-excitement, or whether it was that the soaking rain began to make
him uncomfortable, he was much more staid in demeanor when he got up to
the little lane in Oxford Street where the Culturverein held its
meetings. Of course, he did not knock and demand admission. He stopped
some way down the street, on the other side, where he found shelter from
the rain in a door-way, and whence he could readily observe any one
coming out from the hall of the Verein. Then he succeeded in lighting a
cigarette.

It was a miserable business, this waiting in the cold, damp night air;
but sometimes he kept thinking of how he would approach Reitzei in the
expected interview; and sometimes he thought of Natalie; and again, with
his chilled and dripping fingers he would manage to light a cigarette.
Again and again the door of the hall was opened, and this or the other
figure came out from the glare of the gas into the dark street; but so
far no Reitzei. It was now nearly one in the morning.

Finally, about a quarter past one, the last batch of boon companions
came out, and the lights within were extinguished. Calabressa followed
this gay company, who were laughing and joking despite the rain, for a
short way; but it was clear that neither Beratinsky nor Reitzei was
among them. Then he turned, and made his way to his own lodgings, where
he arrived tired, soaked through, but not apparently disheartened.

Next morning he was up betimes, and at a fairly early hour walked along
to Coventry Street, where he took up his station at the east corner of
Rupert Street, so that he could see any one going westward, himself
unseen. Here he was more successful. He had not been there ten minutes
when Reitzei passed. Calabressa hastened after him, overtook him, and
tapped him on the shoulder.

"Ah, Calabressa!" said Reitzei, surprised, but in noway disconcerted.

"I wish to speak with you," said Calabressa, himself a little agitated,
though he did not show it.

"Certainly; come along. Mr. Lind will arrive soon."

"No, alone. I wish to speak to you alone."

Calabressa looked around. The only place of shelter he saw was a rather
shabby restaurant, chiefly used as a supper-room, and at this moment
having the appearance of not being yet woke up. Reitzei was in a
compliant mood. He suffered himself to be conducted into this place, to
the astonishment of one or two unwashed-looking waiters, who were seated
and reading the previous evening's papers. Calabressa and Reitzei sat
down at one of the small tables; the former ordered some coffee, the
latter a bottle of soda-water.

By this time Calabressa had collected himself for the part he was about
to play.

"Well, my friend," said he, cheerfully, "what news? When is Europe to
hear the fate of the Cardinal?"

"I don't know; I know very little about it," said Reitzei, glancing at
him rather suspiciously.

"It is a terrible business," said Calabressa, reflectively, "a decree of
the Council. You would think that one so powerful, so well protected,
would be able to escape, would you not? But he himself knows better. He
knows he is as powerless as you might be, for example, or myself."

"Oh, as for that," said Reitzei, boldly, "he knows he has deserved it:
what more? He has had his little fling, now comes the settlement of the
score."

"And I hear that our friend Brand is to be the instrument of justice:
how strange! He has not been so long with us."

"That is Mr. Lind's affair: it has nothing to do with me," said Reitzei,
shortly.

"Well," said Calabressa, toying with his coffee-cup. "I hope I shall
never be tempted to do anything that might lead the Council to condemn
me. Fancy such a life; every moment expecting some one to step up behind
you with a knife or a pistol, and the end sure! I would take Provana's
plan. The poor devil; as soon as he heard he had been condemned he could
not bear living. He never thought of escape: a few big stones in the
pockets of his coat, and over he slips into the Arno. And Mesentskoff:
you remember him? His only notion of escape was to give himself up to
the police--twenty-five years in the mines. I think Provana's plan was
better."

Reitzei became a little uneasy, or perhaps only impatient.

"Well, Calabressa," he said, "one must be getting along to one's
affairs--"

"Oh yes, yes, truly," Calabressa said. "I only wished to know a little
more about the Cardinal. You see he cannot give himself up like
Mesentskoff, though he might confess to a hundred worse things than the
Russian ever did. Provana--well, you know the Society has always been
inexorable with regard to its own officers: and rightly, too, Reitzei,
is it not so? If one finds malversation of justice among those in a high
grade, should not the punishment be exemplary? The higher the power, the
higher the responsibility. You, for example, are much too shrewd a man
to risk your life by taking any advantage of your position as one of the
officers--"

"I don't understand you, Calabressa," the other said, somewhat hotly.

"I only meant to say," Calabressa observed, carelessly, "that the
punishment for malversation of justice on the part of an officer is so
terrible, so swift, and so sure, that no one but a madman would think of
running the risk--"

"Yes, but what has that to do with me?" Reitzei said, angrily.

"Nothing, my dear friend, nothing," said Calabressa, soothingly. "But
now, about this selection of Mr. Brand--"

Reitzei turned rather pale for a second; but said instantly, and with
apparent anger,

"I tell you that is none of my business. That is Mr. Lind's business.
What have I to do with it?"

"Do not be so impatient, my friend," said Calabressa, looking at his
coffee. "We will say that, as usual, there was a ballot. All quite fair.
No man wishes to avoid his duty. It is the simplest thing in the world
to mark one of your pieces of paper with a red mark: whoever receives
the marked paper undertakes the commission. All is quite fair, I say.
Only you know, I dare say, the common, the pitiful trick of the conjurer
who throws a pack of cards on the table, backs up. You take one, look at
it privately, return it, and the cards are shuffled. Without lifting the
cards at all he tells you that the one you selected was the eight of
diamonds: why? It is no miracle: all the cards are eight of diamonds;
though you, you poor innocent, do not know that. It is a wretched
trick," added Calabressa, coolly.

Reitzei drank off the remainder of his soda-water at a gulp. He stared
at Calabressa in silence, afraid to speak.

"My dear friend Reitzei," said Calabressa, at length raising his eyes
and fixing them on his companion, "you could not be so insane as to play
any trick like that?--having four pieces of paper, for example, all
marked red, the marks under the paper? You would not enter into any such
conspiracy, for you know, friend Reitzei, that the punishment
is--death!"

The man had turned a ghastly gray-green color. He was apparently choking
with thirst, though he had just finished the soda-water. He could not
speak.

Calabressa calmly waited for him; but in his heart he was saying
exultingly, "_Ha! the dagger quivers in the board: his eyes are starting
from his head; is it Calabressa or Cagliostro that has paralyzed him?_"

At length the wretched creature opposite him gasped out,

"Beratinsky--"

But he could say no more. He motioned to a waiter to bring him some
soda-water.

"Yes, Beratinsky?" said Calabressa, calmly regarding the livid face.

"--has betrayed us!" he said, with trembling lips. In fact, there was no
fight in him at all, no angry repudiation; he was helpless with this
sudden bewilderment of fear.

"Not quite," said Calabressa; and he now spoke in a low, eager voice.
"It is for you to save yourself by forestalling him. It is your one
chance; otherwise the decree; and good-bye to this world for you!
See--look at this card--I say it is your only chance, friend
Reitzei--for I am empowered by the Council to promise you, or
Beratinsky, or any one, a free pardon on confession. Oh, I assure you
the truth is clear: has not one eyes? You, poor devil, you cannot speak:
shall I go to Beratinsky and see whether he can speak?"

"What must I do--what must I do?" the other gasped, in abject terror.
Calabressa, regarding this exhibition of cowardice, could not help
wondering how Lind had allowed such a creature to associate with him.

Then Calabressa, sure of victory, began to breathe more freely. He
assumed a lofty air.

"Trust in me, friend Reitzei. I will instruct you. If you can persuade
the Council of the truth of your story, I promise you they will absolve
you from the operations of a certain Clause which you know of. Meanwhile
you will come to my lodgings and write a line to Lind, excusing yourself
for the day; then this evening I dare say it will be convenient for you
to start for Naples. Oh, I assure you, you owe me thanks: you did not
know the danger you were in; hereafter you will say, 'Well, it was no
other than Calabressa who pulled me out of that quagmire.'"

A few minutes thereafter Calabressa was in a telegraph-office, and this
was the message he despatched:

"Colonna, London: to Bartolotti, Vicolo Isotta, No. 15, Naples. Ridotto
will arrive immediately, colors down. Send orders for Luigi and Bassano
to follow."

"It is a bold stroke," he was saying to himself, as he left the office,
"but I have run some risks in my time. What is one more or less?"

CHAPTER LII.

FIAT JUSTITIA.

This scheme of Calabressa's had been so rapidly conceived and put in
execution, that he had had no time to think of its possible or certain
consequences, in the event of his being successful. His immediate and
sole anxiety was to make sure of his captive. There was always the
chance that a frightened and feeble creature like Reitzei might double
back; he might fly to Lind and Beratinsky, and seek security in a new
compact; for who could prove any thing if the three were to maintain
their innocence? However, as Calabressa shrewdly perceived, Reitzei was
in the dark as to how much the Council knew already. Moreover, he had
his suspicions of Beratinsky. If there was to be a betrayal, he was
clearly resolved to have the benefit of it. Nevertheless, Calabressa did
not lose sight of him for a moment. He took him to his, Calabressa's
lodgings; kept assuring him that he ought to be very grateful for being
thus allowed to escape; got him to write and despatch a note to Lind,
excusing himself for that day and the next, and then proceeded to give
him instructions as to what he should do in Naples. These instructions,
by-the-way, were entirely unnecessary; it is no part of Calabressa's
plan to allow Reitzei to arrive in Naples alone.

After a mid-day meal, Calabressa and Reitzei walked up to the lodgings
of the latter, where he got a few travelling things put together.
By-and-by they went to the railway station, Calabressa suggesting that
it was better for Reitzei to get away from London as soon as possible.
The old albino saw his companion take his seat in the train for Dover,
and then turned away and re-entered the busy world of the London
streets.

The day was fine after the rain; the pavements were white and dry; he
kept in the sunlight for the sake of the warmth; but he had not much
attention for the sights and sounds around him. Now that this sudden
scheme promised to be entirely successful, he could consider the
probable consequences of that success; and, as usual, his first thought
was about Natalie.

"Poor child--poor child!" he said to himself, rather sadly. "How could
she tell how this would end? If she saves the life of her lover, it is
at the cost of the life of her father. The poor child!--must misfortune
meet her whichever way she turns?"

And then, too, some touch of compunction or even remorse entered into
his own bosom. He had been so eager in the pursuit? he had been so
anxious to acquit himself to the satisfaction of the Council, that he
had scarcely remembered that his success would almost certainly involve
the sacrifice of one who was at least an old colleague. Ferdinand Lind
and Calabressa had never been the very best of friends; during one
period, indeed, they had been rivals; but that had been forgotten in the
course of years, and what Calabressa now remembered was that Lind and he
had at least been companions in the old days.

"Seventeen years ago," he was thinking, "he forfeited his life to the
Society, and they gave it back to him. They will not pardon him this
time. And who is to take the news to Natalie and the beautiful brave
child? Ah, what will she say? My God, is there no happiness for any one
in this world?"

He was greatly distressed; but in his distress he became desperate. He
would not look that way at all. He boldly justified himself for what he
had done, and strove to regard it with satisfaction. What if both Lind
and Beratinsky were to suffer; had they not merited any punishment that
might befall them? Had they not compassed the destruction of an innocent
man? Would it have been better, then, that George Brand should have
become the victim of an infamous conspiracy? _Fiat justitia!_--no matter
at what cost. Natalie must face the truth. Better that the guilty should
suffer than the innocent. And he, Calabressa, for one, was not going to
shirk any responsibility for what might happen. He had obeyed the orders
of the Council. He had done his duty: that was enough.

He forced himself not to think of Natalie, and of the dismay and horror
with which she would learn of one of the consequences of her appeal.
This was a matter between men--to be settled by men: if the consciences
of women were tender, it could not be helped. Calabressa walked faster
and faster, as it he were trying to get away from something that
followed and annoyed him. He pretended to himself that he was deeply
interested in a shop-window here or there; occasionally he whistled; he
sung "Vado a Napoli in barchetta" with forced gayety; he twisted his
long white moustache, and then he made his way down to Brand's rooms.

Here he was also very gay.

"Now, my dear Monsieur Brand, to-day I have idleness; to-day I will talk
to you; yesterday I could not."

"Unfortunately," said Brand, "our positions are reversed now, for here
is a letter from Lind wanting me to go up to Lisle Street. It seems
Reitzei has had to go off into the country, leaving a lot of
correspondence--"

"You are, then, on good terms with Lind?" Calabressa interposed,
quickly.

"Yes; why not?" said Brand, with a stare.

"I, also--I say, why not? It is excellent. Then you have no time for my
chatter?" said Calabressa, carelessly regarding the open letter.

"At least you can tell me something about Natalie and her mother. Are
they well? What hotel are they at?"

Calabressa laughed.

"Yes, yes, my friend Monsieur Brand, you say, 'Are they well?' What you
mean is, 'What has taken them to Naples?' _Bien_, you are right to
wonder; you will not have to wonder long. A little patience; you will
hear something; do not be surprised. And you have no message, for
example, by way of reply to the letter I brought you?"

"You are returning to Naples, then?"

"To-night. I will take a message for you: if you have no time now, send
it to me at Charing Cross. Meanwhile, I take my leave."

Calabressa rose, but was persuaded to resume his seat.

"I see," said he, again laughing, "that you have a little time to hear
about the two wanderers. Oh, they are in a good hotel, I assure you;
pretty rooms; you look over to Capri; quite near you the Castello dell'
Ovo; and underneath your windows the waves--a charming view! And the
little Natalushka, she has not lost her spirits: she says to me, 'Dear
Mr. Calabressa, will you have the goodness to become my champion?' I say
to her, 'Against all the world!' 'Oh no,' she answers, 'not quite so
much as that. It is a man who sells agates and pebbles, and such things;
and no matter when I go out, he will follow me, and thrust himself
before me. Dear Mr. Calabressa, I do not want agates and pebbles, and he
is more importunate than all the others put together; and the servants
of the hotel can do nothing with him.' Oh, I assure you, it would have
made you laugh--her pretence of gravity! I said nothing--not I; what is
the use of making serious promises over trifles? But when I went out I
encountered the gentleman with the agates and pebbles. 'Friend,' said I,
'a word with you. Skip, dance, be off with you to the steps of some
other hotel; your presence is not agreeable here.' 'Who are you?' said
he, naturally. 'No matter,' said I; 'but do you wish to be presented
with two dozen of the school-master's sweetmeats?' 'Who are you?' said
he again. Then I took him by the ear and whispered something to him. By
the blood of Saint Peter, Monsieur Brand, you should have heard the
quick snap of his box, and seen the heels of him as he darted off like
an antelope! I tell you the grave-faced minx, that mocking Natalushka,
who makes fun of old people like me--well, she shall not any more be
troubled with agates and pebbles!"

"Then she is quite cheerful and happy?" said Brand, somewhat wondering.

"Sometimes," Calabressa said, more gravely. "One cannot always be
anxious; one has glimpses of hope; then the spirit rises; the eyes
laugh. You, for example, you do not seem much cast down?"

Brand avoided his inquisitive look, and merely said,

"One must take things as one finds them. There is no use repining over
what happens."

Calabressa now rose and took his cap; then he laid it down on the table
again.

"One moment before I go, my dear Monsieur Brand. I told you to expect
news; perhaps you will not understand. Shall I show you something to
help? Regard this: it is only a little trick; but it may help you to
understand when the news comes to you."

He took from his pocket a piece of white paper, square, and with
apparently nothing on it. He laid it on the table, and produced a red
pencil.

"May I trouble you for a small pair of scissors, my dear friend?"

Brand stepped aside to a writing-desk, and brought him the scissors; he
was scarcely thinking of Calabressa, at all; he was thinking of the
message he would send to Naples.

Calabressa slowly and carefully cut the piece of paper into four
squares, and proceeded to fold these up. Brand looked on, it is true,
but with little interest; and he certainly did not perceive that his
companion had folded three of these pieces with the under side inward,
the fourth with the upper side inward, while this had the rough edges
turned in a different direction from the other three.

"Now, Mr. Brand," said Calabressa, calmly, "if one were drawing lots,
for example, what more simple than this? I take one of these pieces--you
see there is nothing on it--I print a red cross with my pencil; there,
it is folded again, and they all go into my cap."

"Enough, Calabressa," Brand said, impatiently; "you show me that you
have questioned me closely enough. There is enough said about it."

"I ask your pardon, my dear friend, there is not," said Calabressa,
politely; "for this is what I have to say now: draw one of the pieces of
paper."

Brand turned away.

"It is not a thing to be gone over again, I tell you; I have had enough
of it; let it rest."

"It must not rest. I beg of you--my friend, I insist--"

He pressed the cap on him. Brand, to get rid of him, drew one of the
papers and tossed it on to the table. Calabressa took it up, opened it,
and showed him the red cross.

"Yes, you are again unfortunate, my dear Monsieur Brand. Fate pursues
you, does it not? But wait one moment. Will you open the other three
papers?"

As Brand seemed impatient, Calabressa himself took them out and opened
them singly before him. On each and all was the same red mark.

But now Brand was indifferent no longer

"What do you mean, Calabressa?" he said, quickly.

"I mean," said Calabressa, regarding him, "that one might prepare a
trick by which you would not have much chance of escape."

Brand caught him by the arm.

"Do you mean that these others--" He could not complete the sentence;
his brain was in a whirl; was this why Natalie had sent him that strange
message of hope?

Calabressa released himself, and took his cap, and said,

"I can tell you nothing, my dear friend--nothing. My lips are sealed for
the present. But surely one is permitted to show you a common little
trick with bits of paper!"

"But you _must_ tell me what you mean," said Brand, breathlessly, and
with his face still somewhat pale. "You suggest there has been a trick.
That is why you have come from Naples? What do you know? What is about
to happen? For God's sake, Calabressa, don't have any mystification
about it: what is it that you know--that you suspect--that you have
heard?"

"My dear friend," said Calabressa, with some anxiety, "perhaps I have
been indiscreet. I know nothing: what can I know? But I show you a
trick--if only to prepare you for any news--and you think it is very
serious. Oh no; do not be too hopeful--do not think it is serious--think
it was a foolish trick--"

And so, notwithstanding all that Brand could do to force some definite
explanation from him, Calabressa succeeded in getting away, promising to
carry to Natalie any message Brand might send in the evening; and as for
Brand himself, it was now time for him to go up to Lisle Street, so that
he had something else to think of than idle mystifications.

For this was how he took it in the end: Calabressa was whimsical,
fantastic, mysterious; he had been playing with the notion that Brand
had been entrapped into this service; he had succeeded in showing
himself how it might have been done. The worst of it was--had he been
putting vain hopes into the mind of Natalie? Was this the cause of her
message? In the midst of all this bewildering uncertainty, Brand set
himself to the work left unfinished by Reitzei, and found Ferdinand Lind
as pleasant and friendly a colleague as ever.

But a few days after he was startled by being summoned back to Lisle
Street, after he had gone home in the afternoon. He found Ferdinand Lind
as calm and collected as usual, though he spoke in a hard, dry voice. He
was then informed that Lind himself and Beratinsky were about to leave
London for a time; that the Council wished Brand to conduct the business
at Lisle Street as best he could in their absence; and that he was to
summon to his aid such of the officers of the Society as he chose. He
asked no explanations, and Lind vouchsafed none. There was something
unusual in the expression of the man's face.

Well, Brand installed himself in Lisle Street, and got along as best he
could with the assistance of Gathorne Edwards and one or two others. But
not one of them, any more than himself, knew what had happened or was
happening. No word or message of any kind came from Calabressa, or Lind,
or the Society, or any one. Day after day Brand get through his work
with patience, but without interest; only for the time being, these
necessities of the hour beguiled him from thinking of the hideous,
inevitable thing that lay ahead in his life.

When news did come, it was sudden and terrible. One night he and Edwards
were alone in the rooms in Lisle Street, when a letter, sent through a
roundabout channel, was put into his hands. He opened it carelessly,
glanced at the beginning of it, then he uttered an exclamation; then, as
he read on, Edwards noticed that his companion's face was ghastly pale,
even to his lips.

"Gracious heavens!--Edwards, read it!" he said, quite breathlessly. He
dropped the letter on the table. There was no wild joy at his own
deliverance in this man's face, there was terror rather; it was not of
himself at all he was thinking, but of the death-agony of Natalie Lind
when she should hear of her father's doom.

"Why, this is very good news, Brand," Edwards cried, wondering. "You are
released from that affair--"

But then he read farther, and he, too, became agitated.

"What--what does it mean? Lind, Beratinsky, Reitzei accused of
conspiracy--misusing the powers intrusted to them as officers of the
Society--Reitzei acquitted on giving evidence--Lind and Beratinsky
condemned!"

Edwards looked at his companion, aghast, and said,

"You know what the penalty is, Brand?"

The other nodded. Edwards returned to the letter, reading aloud, in
detached scraps, his voice giving evidence of his astonishment and
dismay.

"Beratinsky, allowed the option of undertaking the duty from which you
are released, accepts--it is his only chance, I suppose--poor devil!
what chance is it, after all?" He put the letter back on the table.
"What is all this that has happened, Brand?"

Brand did not answer. He had risen to his feet; he stood like one bound
with chains; there was suffering and an infinite pity in the haggard
face.

"Why is not Natalie here?" he said; and it was strange that two men so
different from each other as Brand and Calabressa should in such a
crisis have had the same instinctive thought. The lives and fates of men
were nothing; it was the heart of a girl that concerned them. "They will
tell her--some of them over there--they will tell her suddenly that her
father is condemned to die! Why is she--among--among strangers?"

He pulled out his watch hastily, but long ago the night-mail had left
for Dover. At this moment the bell rung below, and he started; it was
unusual for them to have a visitor at such an hour.

"It is only that drunken fool Kirski," Edwards said. "I asked him to
come here to-night."

CHAPTER LIII.

THE TRIAL.

It was a dark, wet, and cold night when Calabressa felt his way down the
gangway leading from the Admiralty Pier into the small Channel steamer
that lay slightly rolling at her moorings. Most of the passengers who
were already on board had got to leeward of the deck-cabins, and sat
huddled up there, undistinguishable bundles of rugs. For a time he
almost despaired of finding out Reitzei, but at last he was successful;
and he had to explain to this particular bundle of rugs that he had
changed his mind, and would himself travel with him to Naples.

It was a dirty night in crossing, and both suffered considerably; the
difference being that, as soon as they got into the smooth waters of
Calais harbor, Calabressa recovered himself directly, whereas Reitzei
remained an almost inanimate heap of wrappings, and had to be assisted
or shoved up the steep gangway into the glare of the officials' lamps.
Then, as soon as he had got into a compartment of the railway-carriage,
he rolled himself up in a corner, and sought to forget his sufferings in
sleep.

Calabressa was walking up and down on the platform. At length the bell
rung, and he was about to step into the compartment, when he found
himself preceded by a lady.

"I beg your pardon, madame," said he, politely, "but it is a carriage
for smokers."

"And if one wishes to smoke, one is permitted--is it not so?" said the
stranger, cheerfully.

Calabressa at once held open the door for her, and then followed. These
three had the compartment to themselves.

She was a young lady, good-looking, tall, bright-complexioned, with
brown eyes that had plenty of fire in them, and a pleasant smile that
showed brilliant teeth. Calabressa, sitting opposite her, judged that
she was an Austrian, from the number of bags and knickknacks she had,
all in red Russia leather, and from the number of trinkets she wore,
mostly of polished steel or silver. She opened a little tortoise-shell
cigarette-case, took out a cigarette, and gracefully accepted the light
that Calabressa offered her. By this time the train had started, and was
thundering through the night.

The young lady was very frank and affable; she talked to her companion
opposite--Reitzei being fast asleep--about a great many things; she lit
cigarette after cigarette. She spoke of her husband moreover; and
complained that he should have to go and fight in some one else's
quarrel. Why could not ladies who went to the tables at Monte Carlo keep
their temper, that a perfectly neutral third person should be summoned
to fight a duel on behalf of one of them?

"You are going to rejoin him, then, madame?" said Calabressa.

"Not at all," she said, laughing. "I have my own affairs."

After some time, she said, with quite a humorous smile,

"My dear sir, I hope I do not keep you from sleeping. But you are
puzzled about me; you think you have seen me before, but cannot tell
where."

"There you are perfectly right, madame."

"Think of the day before yesterday. You were crossing in the steamer.
You were so good as to suggest to a lady on board that nearer the centre
vessel would be safer for her--"

He stared at her again. Could this be the same lady who, on the day that
he crossed, was seated right at the stern of the steamer her brown hair
flying about with the wind, her white teeth flashing as she laughed and
joked with the sailors, her eyes full of life and merriment as she
pitched up and down? Calabressa, before the paroxysms of his woe
overtook him, had had the bravery to go and remonstrate with this young
lady, and to tell her she would be more comfortable nearer the middle of
the boat; but she had laughingly told him she was a sailor's daughter,
and was not afraid of the sea. Well, this handsome young lady opposite
certainly laughed like that other, but still--

"Oh," she said, "do I puzzle you with such a simple thing? My hair was
brown the day before yesterday, it is black to-day; is that a sufficient
disguise? _Pardieu_, when I went to a music-hall in London that same
night to see some stupid nonsense--bah! such stupid nonsense I have
never seen in the world--I went dressed as a man. Only for exercise, you
perceive: one does not need disguises in London."

Calabressa was becoming more and more mystified, and she saw it, and her
amusement increased.

"Come, my friend," she said, "you cannot deny that you also are
political?"

"I, madame?" said Calabressa, with great innocence.

"Oh yes. And you are not on the side of the big battalions, eh?"

"I declare to you, madame--"

She glanced at Reitzei.

"Your friend sleeps sound. Come, shall I tell you something? You did not
say a word, for example, when you stepped on shore, to a gentleman in a
big cloak who had a lantern--"

"Madame, I beg of you!" he exclaimed, in a low voice, also glancing at
Reitzei.

"What!" she said, laughing. "Then you have the honor of the acquaintance
of my old friend Biard? The rogue, to take a post like that! Oh, I think
my husband could speak more frankly with you; I can only guess."

"You are somewhat indiscreet, madame," said Calabressa, coldly.

"I indiscreet?" she said, flickering off the ash of her cigarette
with a finger of the small gloved hand. Then she said, with mock
seriousness, "How can one be indiscreet with a friend of the good man
Biard? Come, I will give you a lesson in sincerity. My husband is gone
to fight a duel, I told you; yes, but his enemy is a St. Petersburg
general who belonged to the Third Section. They should not let Russians
play at Monte Carlo; it is so easy to pick a quarrel with them. And now
about myself; you want to know what I am--what I am about. Ah, I
perceive it, monsieur. Well, this time, on the other hand, I shall be
discreet. But if you hear of something within a few weeks--if the whole
of the world begins to chatter about it--and you say, 'Well, that woman
had pluck'--then you can think of our little conversation during the
night. We must be getting near Amiens, is it not so?"

She took from her traveling-bag a small apparatus for showering
eau-de-cologne in spray, and with this sprinkled her forehead; afterward
removing the drops with a soft sponge, and smoothing her rebellious
black hair. Then she took out a tiny flask and cup of silver.

"Permit me, monsieur, to give you a little cognac, after so many
cigarettes. I fear you have only been smoking to keep me company--"

"A thousand thanks, madame!" said Calabressa, who certainly did not
refuse. She took none herself; indeed, she had just time to put her
bags in order again when the train slowed into Amiens station; and she,
bidding her bewildered and bewitched companion a most courteous
farewell, got out and departed.

Calabressa himself soon fell asleep, and did not wake until they were
near Paris. By this time the bundle of rugs in the corner had begun to
show signs of animation.

"Well, friend Reitzei you have had a good sleep," said Calabressa,
yawning, and stretching his arms.

"I have slept a little."

"You have slept all night--what more? What do you know, for example, of
the young lady who was in the carriage?"

"I saw her come in," Reitzei said, indifferently, "and I heard you
talking once or twice. What was she?"

"There you ask me a pretty question. My belief is that she was either
one of those Nihilist madwomen, or else the devil himself in a new
shape. At any rate, she had some good cognac."

"I should like some coffee now, Signor Calabressa; and you?"

"I would not refuse it."

Indeed, during all this journey to Naples, Calabressa and his companion
talked much more of the commonplace incidents and wants of travel than
of the graver matters that lay before them. Calabressa was especially
resolute in doing so. He did not like to look ahead. He kept reminding
himself that he was simply the agent of the Council; he was carrying out
their behests; the consequences were for others to deal with. He had
fulfilled his commission; he had procured sufficient proof of the
suspected conspiracy; if evil-doers were to be punished, was he
responsible? _Fiat justitia!_ he kept repeating to himself. He was
answerable to the Council alone. He had done his duty.

But from time to time--and especially when they were travelling at
night, and he was awake--a haunting dread possessed him. How should he
appear before these two women in Naples? His old friend Natalie
Berezolyi had been grievously wronged; she had suffered through long
years; but a wife forgets much when her husband is about to die. And a
daughter? Lind had been an affectionate father enough to this girl;
these two had been companions all her lifetime; recent incidents would
surely be forgotten in her terror over the fact that it was her own
appeal to the Council that had wrought her father's death. And then he,
Calabressa, what could he say? It was through him she had invoked these
unknown powers; it was his counsel that had taken her to Naples; and he
was the immediate instrument that would produce this tragic end.

He would not think of it. At the various places where they stopped he
worried about food and drink, and angrily haggled about hotel-bills: he
read innumerable stupid little newspapers from morning till night; he
smoked Reitzei nearly blind. At last they reached Naples.

Within an hour after their arrival Calabressa, alone, was in Tommaso's
wine-vaults talking to the ghoul-like occupant. A bell rung, faint and
muffled, in the distance; he passed to the back of the vaults, and lit a
candle that Tommaso handed him; then he followed what seemed, from the
rumble overhead, some kind of subterranean corridor. But at the end of
this long sub-way he began to ascend; then he reached some steps;
finally, he was on an ordinary staircase, with daylight around him, and
above him a landing with two doors, both shut.

Opening one of these doors, after having knocked thrice, he entered a
large, bare chamber which was occupied by three men, all seated at a
table which was covered with papers. One of them, Von Zoesch, rose.

"That is good; that is very well settled," he said to the other two. "It
is a good piece of work. Now here is this English business, and the
report of our wily friend, Calabressa. What is it, Calabressa? We had
your telegram; we have sent for Lind and Beratinsky; what more?"

"Excellency, I have fulfilled your commission, I hope with judgment,"
Calabressa said, his cap in his hand. "I believe it is clear that the
Englishman had that duty put upon him by fraudulent means."

"It is a pity if it be so; it will cost us some further trouble, and we
have other things to think about at present." Then he added, lightly,
"but it will please your young lady friend, Calabressa. Well?"

"Excellency, you forget it may not quite so well please her if it is
found that her father was in the conspiracy," said Calabressa,
submissively.

"Why not?" answered the bluff, tall soldier. "However, to the point,
Calabressa. What have you discovered? and your proofs."

"I have none, your Excellency; but I have brought with me one of the
four in the ballot who is willing to confess. Why is he willing to
confess?" said Calabressa, with a little triumphant smile; "because he
thinks the gentlemen of the Council know already."

"And you have frightened the poor devil, no doubt," said Von Zoesch,
laughing.

"I have on the contrary, assured him of pardon," said Calabressa,
gravely. It is within the powers you gave me, Excellency. I have pledged
my honor--"

"Oh yes, yes; very well. But do you mean to tell us, my good
Calabressa," said this tall man, speaking more seriously, "that you have
proof of these three--Lind, Beratinsky, Reitzei--having combined to
impose on the Englishman? Not Lind, surely? Perhaps the other two--"

"Your Excellency, it is for you to investigate further and determine. I
will tell you how I proceeded. I went to the Englishman, and got minute
particulars of what occurred. I formed my own little story, my guess, my
theory. I got hold of Reitzei, and hinted that it was all known. On my
faith, he never thought of denying anything, he was so frightened! But
regard this, Excellency; I know nothing. I can give you the Englishman's
account; then, if you get that of Reitzei, and the two correspond, it is
a good proof that Reitzei is not lying in his confession. It is for you
to examine him, Excellency."'

"No, it is not for me," the ruddy-faced soldier-looking man said, and
then he turned to his two companions. The one was the Secretary
Granaglia: the other was a broad-shouldered, elderly man, with
strikingly handsome features of the modern Greek type, a pallid,
wax-like complexion, and thoughtful, impenetrable eyes. "Brother
Conventzi, I withdraw from this affair. I leave it in hands of the
Council; one of the accused was in former days my friend; it is not
right that I should interfere."

"And I also, Excellency," said Calabressa, eagerly. "I have fulfilled my
commission; may not I retire now also?"

"Brother Granaglia will take down your report in writing; then you are
free, my Calabressa. But you will take the summons of the Council to
your friend Reitzei; I suppose he will have to be examined before the
others arrive."

And so it came about that neither the General von Zoesch nor Calabressa
was present when the trial, if trial it could be called, took place.
There were no formalities. In this same big bare room seven members of
the Council sat at the table, Brother Conventz presiding, the Secretary
Granaglia at the foot, with writing-materials before him. Ferdinand Lind
and Beratinsky stood between them and the side-wall apparently
impassive. Reitzei was nearer the window, pallid, uneasy, his eyes
wandering about the room, but avoiding the place where his former
colleagues stood.

The President briefly stated the accusation against them, and read
Reitzei's account of his share in what had taken place. He asked if they
had anything to deny or to explain.

Beratinsky was the first to speak.

"Illustrious Brethren of the Council," he began, as if with some set
speech; but his color suddenly forsook him, and he halted and looked
helplessly round. Then he said, wildly, "I declare that I am innocent--I
say that I am innocent! I never should have thought of it, gentlemen. It
was Lind's suggestion; he wished to get rid of the man; I declare I had
nothing to gain. Gentlemen, judge for yourselves: what had I to gain?"

He looked from one to the other; the grave faces were mostly regarding
Granaglia, who was slowly and carefully putting the words down.

Then Lind spoke, clearly and coldly:

"I have nothing to deny. What I did was done in the interests of the
Society. My reward for my long services is that I am haled here like a
pickpocket. It is the second time; it will be the last. I have done,
now, with the labor of my life. You can reap the fruits of it. Do with
me what you please."

The President rose.

"The gentlemen may now retire; the decision of the Council will be
communicated to them hereafter."

A bell rung; Tommaso appeared; Lind and Beratinsky were conducted down
the stairs and through the dark corridor. In a few seconds Tommaso
returned, and performed a like office for Reitzei.

The deliberation of the Council were but of short duration. The guilt of
the accused was clear; and clear and positive was the penalty prescribed
by the articles of the Society. But, in consideration of the fact that
Beratinsky had been led into this affair by Lind, it was resolved to
offer him the alternative of his taking over the service from which
Brand was released. This afforded but a poor chance of escape, but
Beratinsky was in a desperate position. That same evening he accepted;
and the Secretary Granaglia was forthwith ordered to report the result
of these proceedings to England, and give certain instructions as to the
further conduct of business there.

The Secretary Granaglia performed this task with his usual equanimity.
He was merely a machine registering the decrees of the Council; it was
no affair of his to be concerned about the fate of Ferdinand Lind; he
had even forgotten the existence of the two women who had been patiently
waiting day after day at that hotel, alternately hoping and fearing to
learn what had occurred.

CHAPTER LIV.

PUT TO THE PROOF.

It was not at all likely that, at such a crisis, George Brand should pay
much attention to the man Kirski, who was now ushered into the room. He
left Edwards to deal with him. In any case he could not have understood
a word they were saying, except through the interpretation of Edwards,
and that was a tedious process. He had other things to think of.

Edwards was in a somewhat nervous and excited condition after hearing
this strange news, and he grew both impatient and angry when he saw that
Kirski was again half dazed with drink.

"Yes, I thought so!" he exclaimed, looking as fierce as the mild
student-face permitted. "This is why you are not at the shop when I
called to-day. What do you mean by it? What has become of your
promises?"

"Little father, I have great trouble," said the man, humbly.

"You! You in trouble!" said Edwards, angrily. "You do not know what
trouble is. You have everything in the world you could wish for. You
have good friends, as much employment as you can want, fair wages, and a
comfortable home. If your wife ran away from you, isn't it a good
riddance? And then, instead of setting about your work like a good
citizen, you think of nothing but murdering a man who is as far away
from you as the man in the moon, and then you take to drinking, and
become a nuisance to every one."

"Little father, I have many troubles, and I wish to forget."

"Your troubles!" said Edwards, though his anger was a little bit
assumed: he wished to frighten the man into better ways. "What are your
troubles? Think of that beautiful lady you are always talking about, who
interested herself in you--the bigger fool she!--think of her trouble
when she knows that her father is to die; and for what? Because he was
not obedient to the laws of the Society. And he is punished with death;
and you, have you been obedient? What has become of your promises to
me?"

The man before him seemed at this moment to arouse himself. He answered
nothing to the reproaches hurled at him; but said, with a glance of
eager interest in the sunken eyes,

"Is she in great trouble, little father?"

This gleam of intelligence rather startled Edwards. He had been merely
scolding a half-drunken poor devil, and had been incautious as to what
he said. He continued, with greater discretion,

"Would she have her troubles made any the less if she knew how you were
behaving? She was interested in you; many a time she asked about you--"

"Yes, yes," the man said, slowly; and he was twisting about the cap that
he held in his hand.

"And she gave you her portrait. Well, I am glad you knew you were not
fit to retain such a gift. A young lady like that does not give her
portrait to be taken into public-houses--"

"No more--do not say any more, little father," Kirski said, though in
the same humble way. "It is useless."

"Useless?"

"I will not go back to any public-house--never."

"So you said to me four days ago," Edwards answered.

"This time it is true," he said, though he did not lift his bleared
eyes. "To-morrow I will take back the portrait, little father; it shall
remain with me, in my room. I do not go back to any public-house, I
shall be no more trouble." Then he said, timidly raising his eyes, "Does
she weep--that beautiful one?"

"Yes, no doubt," said Edwards, hastily, and in some confusion. "Is it
not natural? But you must not say a word about it; it is a secret. Think
of it, and what one has to suffer in this world, and then ask yourself
if you will add to the trouble of one who has been so kind to you. Now
do I understand you aright? Is it a definite promise this time?"

"This time, yes, little father. You will have no more need to complain
of me, I will not add to any one's trouble. To-morrow--no, to-night I
take back the portrait; it is sacred; I will not add to any one's
trouble."

There was something strange about the man's manner, but Edwards put it
down to the effects of drink, and was chiefly concerned in impressing
on the dazed intelligence before him the responsibility of the promises
he had given.

"To-morrow, then, at nine you are at the shop."

"Assuredly, if you wish it, little father."

"Remember, it is the last chance your master will give you. He is very
kind to give you this chance. To-morrow you begin a new course of
conduct; and when the young lady comes back I will tell her of it."

"I will not add to her troubles, little father; you may be sure of it
this time."

When he had gone, Brand turned to his companion. He still held that
letter in his hands. His face, that had grown somewhat haggard of late,
was even paler than usual.

"I suppose I ought to feel very glad, Edwards," he said. "This is a
reprieve, don't you see, so far as I am concerned. And yet I can't
realize it; I don't seem to care about it; all the bitterness was
over--"

"You are too bewildered yet, Brand--no wonder."

"If only the girl and her mother were over here!" he said; and then he
added, with a quick instinct of fear, "What will she say to me? When she
appealed to the Council, surely she could not have imagined that the
result would be her father's death. But now that she finds it so--when
she finds that, in order to rescue me, she has sacrificed him--"

He could not complete the sentence.

"But he has richly deserved it," said Edwards.

"That is not what she will look to," he said. "Edwards," he added,
presently, "I am going home now. This place stifles me. I hate the look
of it. That table is where they played their little sleight-of-hand
business; and oh! the bravery of the one and the indifference of the
other, and Lind's solemn exposition of duty and obedience, and all the
rest of it! Well, what will be the result when this pretty story becomes
known? Rascality among the very foremost officers of the Society! what
are all those people who have recently joined us, who are thinking of
joining us, likely to say? Are these your high-priests? Are these the
apostles of self-sacrifice, and all the virtues?"

"It is bad enough, but not irreparable," said Edwards, calmly. "If a
member here or there falls out, the association remains; if one of its
high officers betrays his trust, you see how swift and terrible the
punishment is."

"I do not," said Brand. "I see that the paper decree is swift enough,
but what about the execution of it? Have the Council a body of
executioners?"

"I don't know about that," said Edwards, simply; "but I know that when
I was in Naples with Calabressa, I heard of the fate of several against
whom decrees had been pronounced; and I know that in every instance they
anticipated their own fate; the horror of being continually on the watch
was too much for them. You may depend on it, that is what Lind will do.
He is a proud man. He will not go slinking about, afraid at every
street-corner of the knife of the Little Chaffinch, or some other of
those Camorra fellows--"

"Edwards," said Brand, hastily, "there is a taint of blood--of
treachery--about this whole affair that sickens me. It terrifies me when
I think of what lies ahead. I--I think I have already tasted death, and
the taste is still bitter in the mouth. I must get into the fresh air."

Edwards got his coat and hat, and followed. He saw that his companion
was strangely excited.

"If all this work--if all we have been looking forward to--were to turn
out to be a delusion," Brand said, hurriedly, when they had got into the
dark clear night outside, "that would be worse than the suicide of
Ferdinand Lind or the disappearance of Beratinsky. If this is to be the
end--if these are our companions--"

"But how can you suggest such a thing?" Edwards protested. "Your
imagination is filled with blackness, Brand. You are disturbed, shocked,
afraid. Why, who are your colleagues? What do you think of--" Here he
mentioned a whole string of names, some of them those of well-known
Englishmen. "Do you accuse them of treachery? Have you not perfect
confidence in them? Have they not perfect confidence in the work we are
all pledged to?"

But he could not shake off this horrible feeling. He wished to be alone,
to fight with it; he did not even think of going to Lord Evelyn; perhaps
it was now too late. Shortly afterward he bade Edwards good-night, and
made his way to his rooms at the foot of Buckingham Street.

Waters had left the lights low; he did not turn them up. Outside lay the
black night-world of London, hushed and silent, with its thousand golden
points of fire. He was glad to be alone.

And yet an unknown feeling of dread was upon him. It seemed as if now
for the first time he realized what a terrible destiny had nearly been
his; and that his escape, so far from rendering him joyful, had left him
still trembling and horrified. Hitherto his pride had conquered. Even as
he had undertaking that duty, it was his pride that had kept him
outwardly calm and indifferent. He would not show fear, he would not
even show repugnance, before these men. And it was pride, too, that had
taught him at length and successfully to crush down certain vague
rebellions of conscience. He would not go back from his oath. He would
not go back from the promise to which Natalie's ring bound him. He would
go through with this thing, and bid farewell to life; further than that
no one could have demands on him.

But the sudden release from this dire pressure of will left his nerves
somewhat unstrung. For the mere sake of companionship he would like to
have taken Natalie's hand, to have heard her voice: that would have
assured him, and given him courage. He knew not what dangers encompassed
her, what agony she might not be suffering. And the night did not answer
these sudden, wavering, confused questionings; the darkness outside was
as silent as the grave.

Then a deeper gloom, almost touching despair, fell upon him. He saw in
all those companions of his only so many dupes; the great hope of his
life left him, the future became blank. He began to persuade himself
that he had only toyed with that new-found faith; that it was the
desperation of _ennui_, not a true hope, that had drawn him into this
work; that henceforth he would have no right to call upon others to join
in a vain undertaking. If such things as had just occurred were possible
in this organization, with all its lofty aims and professions--if there
was to be a background of assassination and conspiracy--why, this dream
must go as others had done. Then what remained to him in life? He almost
wished he had been allowed to go forward to this climax unknowing; to
have gone with his heart still filled with faith; to be assured until
the last moment that Natalie would remember how he had fulfilled his
promise to her.

It was a dark night for him, within and without. But as he sat there at
the window, or walked up and down, wrestling with these demons of doubt
and despair, a dull blue light gradually filled the sky outside; the
orange stars on the bridges grew less intense; the broad river became
visible in the dusk. Then by-and-by the dull blue cleared into a pale
steel-gray, and the forms of the boats could be made out, anchored in
the stream there: these were the first indications of the coming dawn.

Somehow or other he ceased these restless pacings of his, and was
attracted to the window, though he gazed but absently on the slow change
taking place outside--the world-old wonder of the new day rising in the
east. Up into that steely-gray glides a soft and luminous
saffron-brown; it spreads and widens; against it the far dome of St.
Paul's becomes a beautiful velvet-purple. A planet, that had been golden
when it was in the dusk near the horizon, has now sailed up into the
higher heaven, and shines a clear silver point. And now, listen! the
hushed and muffled sounds in the silence; the great city is awakening
from its sleep--there is the bark of a dog--the rumble of a cart is
heard. And still that saffron glow spreads and kindles in the east, and
the dome of St. Paul's is richer in hue than ever; the river between the
black-gray bridges, shines now with a cold light, and the gas-lamps have
grown pale. And then the final flood of glory wells up in the eastern
skies, and all around him the higher buildings catch here and there a
swift golden gleam: the sunrise is declared; there is a new day born for
the sons and daughters of men.

The night had fled, and with it the hideous phantoms of the night. It
seemed to him that he had escaped from the grave, and that he was only
now shaking off the horror of it. Look at the beautiful, clear colors
without; listen to the hum of the city awakening to all its cheerful
activities; the new day has brought with it new desires, new hopes. He
threw open the windows. The morning air was cold and sweet--the sparrows
were beginning to chirp in the garden-plots below. Surely that black
night was over and gone.

If only he could see Natalie for one moment, to assure her that he had
succumbed but once, and for the last time, to despair. It was a
confession he was bound to make; it would not lessen her trust in him.
For now all through his soul a sweet, clear voice was ringing: it was
the song the sunrise had brought him; it was the voice of Natalie
herself, with all its proud pathos and fervor, as he had heard it in the
olden days:

    "A little time we gain from time
     To set our seasons in some chime,
       For harsh or sweet, or loud or low,
       With seasons played out long ago--
     And souls that in their time and prime
       Took part with summer or with snow,
     Lived abject lives out or sublime,
       And had there chance of seed to sow
     For service or disservice done
     To those days dead and this their son.

    "A little time that we may fill
     Or with such good works or such ill
       As loose the bonds or make them strong,
       Wherein all manhood suffers wrong.
     By rose-hung river and light-foot rill
       There are who rest not; who think long
     Till they discern, as from a hill,
       At the sun's hour of morning song,
     Known of souls only, and those souls free,
     The sacred spaces of the sea."

Surely it was still for him and her together to stand on some such
height, hand-in-hand, and watch the sunrise come over the sea and
awakening world. They would forget the phantoms of the night, and the
traitors gone down to Erubus; perhaps, for this new life together, they
might seek a new clime. There was work for them still; and faith, and
hope, and the constant assurance of love: the future might perchance be
all the more beautiful because of these dark perils of the past.

As he lay thus communing with himself, the light shining in on his
haggard face, Waters came into the room, and was greatly concerned to
find that not only had his master not been to bed, but that the supper
left out for him the night before had not been touched. Brand rose,
without betraying any impatience over his attendant's pertinacious
inquiries and remonstrances. He went and got writing materials, and
wrote as follows:

"Dear Evelyn,--If you could go over to Naples for me--at once--I would
take it as a great favor. I cannot go myself. Whether or not, come to
see me at Lisle Street to-day, by twelve.

  "Yours,         G.B."

"Take this to Lord Evelyn, Waters; and if he is up get an answer."

"But your breakfast, sir. God bless me--"

"Never mind breakfast. I am going to lie down for an hour or two now: I
have had some business to think over. Let me have some breakfast about
eleven--when I ring."

"Very well, sir."

That was his phrase--he had had some business to think over. But it
seemed to him, as he went into the adjacent room, that that night he had
passed through worse than the bitterness of death.

CHAPTER LV.

CONGRATULATIONS.

The Secretary Granaglia, the business of the Council being over, carried
the news to Von Zoesch. It was almost dark when he made his way up the
steep little terraces in the garden of the villa at Posilipo. He found
the tall general seated at the entrance to the grotto-like retreat,
smoking a cigar in the dusk.

"You are late, Granaglia," he said.

"I had some difficulty in coming here," said the little man with the
sallow face and the tired eyes. "The police are busy, or pretending to
be. The Commendatore tells me that Zaccatelli has been stirring them
up."

"Zaccatelli!" said Von Zoesch, with a laugh. "It will soon be time now
for Zaccatelli to come down from his perch. Well, now, what is the
result?"

Granaglia briefly recounted what had occurred: the other manifested no
surprise.

"So this is the end of the Lind episode," he said, thoughtfully. "It is
a pity that so able a man should be thrown away. He has worked well; I
know of no one who will fill his place; but that must be seen to at
once, Granaglia. How long have they given him?"

"A month, your Excellency. He wishes to go back to England to put his
affairs in order. He has a firm nerve."

"He was a good-looking man when he was young," said Von Zoesch,
apparently to himself. Then he added: "This Beratinsky, to whom the
Zaccatelli affair has been transferred--what do you think of him? There
must be no bungling, Granaglia. What do you think of him--is he to be
trusted?"

"Your Excellency, if I were to give you my own impression, I should say
not in the least. He accepts this service--why? Because he is
otherwise lost for certain, and here is a chance: it is perhaps better
than nothing. But he does not go forward with any conviction of duty:
what is he thinking but of his chance of running away?"

"And perhaps running away beforehand, for example?"

"Oh no, your Excellency; at least, that has been provided for. Caprone
and the brother of Caprone will wait upon him until the thing is over;
and what is more, he will receive a hint that these two humble
attendants of his are keeping an eye on him."

"Caprone dare not go to Rome."

"He is ready to go anywhere. They might as well try to lay hands on a
ghost."

Von Zoesch rose, and stretched his huge frame, and yawned.

"So this is the end of the episode Lind," he said, idly. "It is a pity.
But if a man plays a risky game and loses, he must pay. Perhaps the
warning will be wholesome, Granaglia. Our friends must understand that
our laws are not laid down for nothing, and that we are not afraid to
punish offenders, even if these be among ourselves. I suppose there is
nothing further to be done to-night?"

"I would ask your Excellency to remain here for a little time yet," said
the Secretary.

"Are they coming so near? We must get Calabressa to procure some of them
a dozen or two on board the schooner. However--"

He sat down again, and lit another cigar.

"We must pay Calabressa a compliment, Granaglia; it was well done--very
clever; it has all turned out just as he imagined; it is not the first
time he has done us good service, with all his volubility. Oh yes; the
rascal knows when to hold his tongue. At this moment, for example, he
refuses to open his lips.

"Pardon, your Excellency; but I do not understand you."

The general laughed a little, and continued talking--it was one way of
passing the time.

"It is a good joke enough. The wily old Calabressa saw pretty clearly
what the decision of the Council would be, and so he comes to me and
entreats me to be the bearer of the news to Madame Lind and her
daughter. Oh yes; it is good news, this deliverance of the Englishman;
Madame Lind is an old friend of mine; she and her daughter will be
grateful. But you perceive, Granaglia, that what the cunning old dog was
determined to avoid was the reporting to Madame Lind that her husband
had been sentenced. That was no part of the original programme. And now
Calabressa holds his mouth shut; he keeps out of the way; it is left for
me to go and inform the mother and daughter."

His voice became more serious.

"The devil take it, it is no pleasant task at all! One is never sure how
the brain of a woman will work; you start the engine, but it may plunge
back the wrong way and strike you. Calabressa is afraid. The fox is
hiding in some hole until it is all over."

"Cannot I be of some service, your Excellency?" the Secretary said.

"No, no; but I thank you, friend Granaglia. It is a delicate matter; it
must be approached with circumspection; and I as an old acquaintance of
Madame Lind, ought not to shirk the duty."

Apparently, it was not Calabressa only who had some dread of the
difficulties of news-bearer.

"It is impossible for your Excellency to go near the hotel at present,"
said the Secretary, promptly.

But his chief refused to accept this offered means of escape.

"That is true, but it is not a difficulty. To-night, friend Granaglia,
you will send a message to the hotel, bidding them be at the Villa
Odelschalchi to-morrow morning at eleven--you understand?"

"Certainly, your Excellency."

"Then I will meet them, and take the risk. Everything must be settled
off at once: we have wasted too much time over this affair, Granaglia.
When does the Genoa Council meet?"

"On the Seventh."

"To-morrow you must issue the summonses. Come, Granaglia, let us be
stirring; it is cold. Where does Brother Conventz sleep to-night?"

"On board the schooner, your Excellency."

"I also. To-morrow, at eleven, you will be at Portici; to-night you will
send the message to the ladies at the hotel; and also, if you can, find
out where that rogue Calabressa is hiding."

That was the last of their talking. There was some locking up inside;
then they passed down through the dark garden and out into the road.
There was no one visible. They walked on in silence.

Punctually at eleven the next morning Natalie and her mother appeared at
the iron gates of the Villa Odelschalchi and rang the bell. The porter
appeared, admitted them, and then turned to the great white staircase,
which Granaglia was at that moment seen to be descending.

"Will the ladies have the goodness to step into the garden?" said the
Secretary, with grave courtesy. "General von Zoesch will be with them
directly."

He accompanied them as far as the top of the terrace, and then bowed and
withdrew.

If Natalie Lind was agitated now, it was not with fear. There was a
fresh animation of color in her cheek; her eyes were brilliant and
excited; she spoke in low, eager whispers.

"Oh, I know what he is coming to tell us, mother--you need not be
afraid: I shall see it in his face before he comes near--I think I shall
be able to hear it in the sound of his steps. Have courage, mother! why
do you tremble so? Remember what Calabressa said. They are so powerful
they can do everything; and you and the General von Zoesch old friends,
too. Look at this, mother: do you see what I have brought with me?"

She opened her purse--her fingers were certainly a little nervous--and
showed her mother a folded-up telegraph form.

"I am going to telegraph to him, mother: surely it is from me he should
hear the news first. And then he might come here, mother, to go back
with us: you will rest a few days after so much anxiety."

"I hope, my darling, it will all turn out well," said the mother,
turning quickly as she heard footsteps.

The next second Von Zoesch appeared, his face red with embarrassment;
but still Natalie with her first swift glance saw that his eyes were
smiling and friendly, and her heart leaped up with a bound.

"My dear young lady," said he, taking her hand, "forgive me for making
such a peremptory appointment--"

"But you bring good news'?" she said, breathlessly. "Oh, sir, I can see
that you have succeeded--yes, yes--the danger is removed--you have saved
him!"

"My dear young lady," said he smiling, but still greatly embarrassed,
"it is my good fortune to be able to congratulate you. Ah, I thought
that would bring some brightness to your eyes--"

She raised his hand, and kissed it twice passionately.

"Mother," she said, in a wild, joyful way, "will you not thank him for
me? I do not know what I am saying--and then--"

The general had turned to her mother. Natalie quickly took out the
telegraph-form, unfolded it, knelt down and put it on the garden-seat,
and with trembling fingers wrote her message: "_You are saved! Come to
us at once; my mother and I wait here for you;_" that was the substance
of it. Then she rose, and for a second or two stood irresolute, silent,
and shamefaced. Happily no one had noticed her. These two had gone
forward, and were talking together in a low voice. She did not join
them; she could not have spoken then, her heart was throbbing so
violently with its newly-found joy.

"Stefan," said the mother--and there was a pleasant light in her sad
eyes too--"I shall never forget the gratitude we owe you. I have nothing
else to regard now but my child's happiness. You have saved her life to
her."

"Yes, yes," he said, in stammering haste, "I am glad the child is happy.
It would be a pity, at her time of life, and such a beautiful, brave
young lady--yes, it would be a pity if she were to suffer: I am very
glad. But there is another side to the question, Natalie; it refers to
you. I have not such good news for you--that is, it depends on how you
take it; but it is not good news--it will trouble you--only, it was
inevitable--"

"What do you mean?" she said, calmly.

"Your husband," he said, regarding her somewhat anxiously.

"Yes," she said, without betraying any emotion.

"Well, you understand, we had not the power to release your English
friend unless there had been injustice--or worse--in his being
appointed. There was. More than that, it was very nearly a repetition of
the old story. Your husband was again implicated."

She merely looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

"And the Council," he said, more embarrassed than ever, "had to try him
for his complicity. He was tried and--condemned."

"To what?" she said, quite calmly.

"You must know, Natalie. He loses his life!"

She turned very pale.

"It was not so before," she managed to say, though her breath came and
went quickly.