great, dark, echoing marble staircase.  It seemed to yawn
beneath him like a black pit as he descended.
     He crossed the  courtyard, treading  cautiously for fear of waking Gian
Battista, who slept on the ground floor. In the wood-cellar  at the back was
a  little  grated window, opening  on  the canal and not more than four feet
from the ground. He remembered that the rusty grating had broken away on one
side; by pushing a little he could make an aperture wide enough to climb out
by.
     The grating was  strong, and he grazed his  hands  badly and  tore  the
sleeve  of  his coat; but that  was  no matter. He  looked up  and down  the
street;  there was no one in sight,  and the  canal lay black and silent, an
ugly trench between two straight and slimy walls. The untried universe might
prove a  dismal hole, but it  could hardly be more  flat and sordid than the
corner which he was leaving behind him. There was nothing to regret; nothing
to look back upon. It  had been a  pestilent little stagnant  world, full of
squalid lies and clumsy cheats and foul-smelling ditches  that were not even
deep enough to drown a man.
     He walked along the  canal bank, and came  out  upon the tiny square by
the Medici palace. It was here that  Gemma had run up to him with her  vivid
face, her  outstretched hands. Here was the little flight of wet stone steps
leading down to the moat; and there  the  fortress scowling across the strip
of dirty water. He had never noticed before how squat and mean it looked.
     Passing   through  the   narrow  streets   he   reached   the   Darsena
shipping-basin, where he  took off his hat and  flung it into  the water. It
would be found, of course, when they dragged for his body. Then he walked on
along  the water's  edge, considering perplexedly  what to do next.  He must
contrive to hide on some  ship; but it was a difficult thing to do. His only
chance would be to get on to the  huge old Medici breakwater  and walk along
to  the further  end of it.  There  was a  low-class tavern  on  the  point;
probably he should find some sailor there who could be bribed.
     But  the dock gates  were closed. How should he get past them, and past
the customs  officials? His stock of money would not  furnish the high bribe
that  they  would  demand  for  letting him through  at  night and without a
passport. Besides they might recognize him.
     As  he passed  the  bronze  statue of  the "Four Moors," a man's figure
emerged  from  an old  house on  the opposite side of the shipping basin and
approached the  bridge. Arthur slipped at once into  the  deep shadow behind
the group of statuary and crouched down in  the darkness, peeping cautiously
round the corner of the pedestal.
     It was a soft spring night, warm and starlit. The  water lapped against
the stone walls of the  basin and swirled  in gentle eddies round the  steps
with a sound  as of  low  laughter. Somewhere near a chain creaked, swinging
slowly to and fro. A huge iron crane towered up, tall and  melancholy in the
dimness.  Black  on   a  shimmering  expanse   of  starry  sky  and   pearly
cloud-wreaths,  the figures of  the fettered, struggling slaves stood out in
vain and vehement protest against a merciless doom.
     The man approached unsteadily along the water side, shouting an English
street song. He  was evidently  a  sailor returning  from a carouse  at some
tavern. No one else was within  sight.  As he drew near, Arthur stood up and
stepped  into the middle of the  roadway. The sailor broke off  in his  song
with an oath, and stopped short.
     "I want  to  speak to you," Arthur said in Italian. "Do you  understand
me?"
     The man shook his head. "It's  no use  talking  that patter to  me," he
said; then, plunging into bad French, asked sullenly: "What do you want? Why
can't you let me pass?"
     "Just come out of the light here a minute; I want to speak to you."
     "Ah! wouldn't you like it? Out of the light! Got a knife anywhere about
you?"
     "No, no, man!  Can't  you see  I only want  your help? I'll pay you for
it?" "Eh? What? And dressed like a swell, too------" The sailor had relapsed
into English. He now moved into the shadow and leaned against the railing of
the pedestal.
     "Well," he said, returning to his atrocious French; "and what is it you
want?"
     "I want to get away from here----"
     "Aha! Stowaway! Want  me to  hide you? Been up to something, I suppose.
Stuck a knife into somebody, eh? Just like these foreigners! And where might
you be wanting to go? Not to the police station, I fancy?"
     He laughed in his tipsy way, and winked one eye.
     "What vessel do you belong to?"
     "Carlotta--Leghorn  to Buenos Ayres; shipping oil one way and hides the
other.  She's  over there"--pointing in the direction of the  breakwater  --
"beastly old hulk!"
     "Buenos Ayres--yes! Can you hide me anywhere on board?"
     "How much can you give?"
     "Not very much; I have only a few paoli."
     "No. Can't  do  it under  fifty--and cheap  at  that, too--a swell like
you."
     "What  do you mean  by a swell? If you like my  clothes you  may change
with me, but I can't give you more money than I have got."
     "You have a watch there. Hand it over."
     Arthur took out  a lady's gold watch, delicately  chased and enamelled,
with the  initials "G.  B." on the back. It had been  his mother's--but what
did that matter now?
     "Ah!"  remarked the sailor  with  a quick glance  at  it.  "Stolen,  of
course! Let me look!"
     Arthur drew  his hand away. "No," he  said. "I  will give you the watch
when we are on board; not before."
     "You're not such  a  fool as you look,  after all! I'll  bet it's  your
first scrape, though, eh?"
     "That is my business. Ah! there comes the watchman."
     They  crouched down behind the  group  of statuary and  waited till the
watchman had  passed. Then the sailor  rose, and, telling Arthur  to  follow
him, walked on, laughing foolishly to himself. Arthur followed in silence.
     The  sailor led him back to the  little irregular square by  the Medici
palace; and,  stopping  in a dark corner, mumbled in what was intended for a
cautious whisper:
     "Wait here; those soldier fellows will see you if you come further."
     "What are you going to do?"
     "Get  you some clothes. I'm not going  to take you  on  board with that
bloody coatsleeve."
     Arthur  glanced  down  at the sleeve which had been  torn by the window
grating. A little blood from the grazed hand  had fallen upon it.  Evidently
the man thought  him a murderer. Well,  it was of no consequence what people
thought.
     After some time the sailor  came back, triumphant, with  a bundle under
his arm.
     "Change," he whispered; "and make haste about it. I must  get back, and
that old Jew has kept me bargaining and haggling for half an hour."
     Arthur obeyed, shrinking with instinctive disgust at the first touch of
second-hand clothes. Fortunately these, though rough and coarse, were fairly
clean. When he stepped into the light in his new attire,  the  sailor looked
at him with tipsy solemnity and gravely nodded his approval.
     "You'll do,"  he  said.  "This  way,  and don't make a noise."  Arthur,
carrying his discarded  clothes, followed him through a labyrinth of winding
canals  and dark narrow alleys; the mediaeval slum quarter which  the people
of Leghorn call "New Venice." Here and  there a gloomy old palace,  solitary
among  the squalid  houses  and filthy  courts,  stood  between  two noisome
ditches,  with  a forlorn air of trying to preserve its ancient dignity  and
yet of knowing the effort to be a hopeless one. Some of the alleys, he knew,
were  notorious  dens of thieves, cut-throats,  and smugglers;  others  were
merely wretched and poverty-stricken.
     Beside one of the little bridges the sailor stopped, and, looking round
to see  that they were not  observed, descended a flight of stone steps to a
narrow landing stage. Under the bridge was a  dirty, crazy old boat. Sharply
ordering Arthur to jump in and lie  down, he seated himself in  the boat and
began  rowing towards  the harbour's mouth. Arthur lay still on the wet  and
leaky planks, hidden  by the clothes which the man had thrown  over him, and
peeping out from under them at the familiar streets and houses.
     Presently they passed under a bridge and entered that part of the canal
which  forms a  moat  for the fortress.  The massive  walls rose out of  the
water, broad at the base and narrowing upward  to the frowning  turrets. How
strong, how threatening they had seemed to him a few hours ago! And now----
     He laughed softly as he lay in the bottom of the boat.
     "Hold  your noise," the sailor whispered, "and keep your head  covered!
We're close to the custom house."
     Arthur drew the clothes over his head. A  few yards further on the boat
stopped before a row of masts chained together, which lay across the surface
of the canal, blocking the narrow waterway between the  custom house and the
fortress wall. A sleepy official came out yawning and bent over  the water's
edge with a lantern in his hand.
     "Passports, please."
     The sailor  handed up his official papers.  Arthur, half stifled  under
the clothes, held his breath, listening.
     "A nice time of night to come back  to your ship!" grumbled the customs
official. "Been out on the spree, I suppose. What's in your boat?"
     "Old clothes. Got them cheap." He held up the waistcoat for inspection.
The official, lowering his lantern, bent over, straining his eyes to see.
     "It's all right, I suppose. You can pass."
     He lifted the  barrier and  the boat moved slowly out  into  the  dark,
heaving water. At a little distance Arthur sat up and threw off the clothes.
     "Here  she  is,"  the sailor whispered,  after rowing for  some time in
silence. "Keep close behind me and hold your tongue."
     He clambered  up the side of a huge  black monster, swearing  under his
breath at the clumsiness  of the landsman,  though  Arthur's natural agility
rendered  him less awkward than most  people would  have  been in his place.
Once safely on board, they crept cautiously  between  dark masses of rigging
and  machinery,  and  came at last  to  a hatchway,  which the sailor softly
raised.
     "Down here!" he whispered. "I'll be back in a minute."
     The hold was  not  only damp and  dark,  but intolerably foul. At first
Arthur  instinctively drew back, half  choked by the stench of raw hides and
rancid  oil. Then he  remembered  the "punishment cell," and  descended  the
ladder, shrugging his shoulders. Life is pretty much the same everywhere, it
seemed; ugly, putrid, infested  with vermin,  full of  shameful  secrets and
dark corners. Still, life is life, and he must make the best of it.
     In a few minutes the sailor came back with something in his hands which
Arthur could not distinctly see for the darkness.
     "Now, give me the watch and money. Make haste!"
     Taking  advantage of the darkness, Arthur succeeded  in  keeping back a
few coins.
     "You must get me something to eat," he said; "I am half starved."
     "I've  brought it. Here you are." The sailor handed him a pitcher, some
hard biscuit,  and  a piece of salt pork.  "Now mind, you must hide  in this
empty barrel,  here, when  the  customs officers  come to  examine to-morrow
morning. Keep as still as a mouse till we're right out at sea. I'll  let you
know  when to come out. And won't  you  just catch it when the  captain sees
you--that's all! Got the drink safe? Good-night!"
     The hatchway closed, and Arthur, setting the precious "drink" in a safe
place, climbed  on to an oil barrel  to  eat his  pork and biscuit. Then  he
curled himself up  on the  dirty floor;  and, for the first time  since  his
babyhood, settled himself to sleep without a prayer. The rats scurried round
him in the darkness;  but neither their persistent noise  nor the swaying of
the ship, nor  the nauseating stench of oil, nor the prospect of to-morrow's
sea-sickness, could keep him awake.  He cared no more for them all  than for
the broken and dishonoured idols that  only yesterday had been  the  gods of
his adoration.

        PART II: CHAPTER I.
     ONE evening  in  July,  1846,  a  few  acquaintances  met  at Professor
Fabrizi's house in Florence to discuss plans for future political work.
     Several of them belonged  to  the  Mazzinian party and  would have been
satisfied with  nothing  less than a democratic Republic and a United Italy.
Others  were Constitutional Monarchists and Liberals  of  various shades. On
one point, however, they  were all agreed; that of dissatisfaction with  the
Tuscan censorship; and  the popular professor had called the  meeting in the
hope  that,  on  this  one  subject  at least,  the  representatives of  the
dissentient  parties  would  be able  to get  through an  hour's  discussion
without quarrelling.
     Only  a  fortnight had elapsed since the  famous amnesty which Pius IX.
had granted, on  his accession, to political offenders in  the Papal States;
but  the wave of liberal enthusiasm  caused by it was already spreading over
Italy. In Tuscany even the government appeared  to have been affected by the
astounding event. It  had occurred  to  Fabrizi  and  a  few  other  leading
Florentines  that this was a propitious  moment  for a bold effort to reform
the press-laws.
     "Of  course," the dramatist Lega had said, when the  subject was  first
broached to  him; "it would  be impossible to start a newspaper till we  can
get the press-law changed; we should not bring out the first  number. But we
may  be able to run some pamphlets  through the censorship already; and  the
sooner we begin the sooner we shall get the law changed."
     He was now explaining in Fabrizi's library his theory of the line which
should be taken by liberal writers at the moment.
     "There is  no doubt,"  interposed  one  of  the  company, a gray-haired
barrister with a rather drawling manner of speech, "that in some way we must
take advantage of  the  moment. We shall not see such a favourable one again
for  bringing forward serious reforms. But I doubt  the pamphlets  doing any
good. They will only irritate and frighten the government instead of winning
it  over to  our  side,  which  is what we  really want to  do. If  once the
authorities  begin  to  think of  us  as dangerous agitators our  chance  of
getting their help is gone."
     "Then what would you have us do?"
     "Petition."
     "To the Grand Duke?"
     "Yes; for an augmentation of the liberty of the press."
     A  keen-looking, dark man  sitting by the window  turned his head round
with a laugh.
     "You'll get a lot out of petitioning!" he said. "I should have  thought
the  result of the Renzi case  was enough to  cure anybody  of going to work
that way."
     "My  dear sir, I am as much grieved as  you are that we did not succeed
in preventing the  extradition of Renzi. But really--I do  not wish to  hurt
the sensibilities of anyone, but I  cannot help thinking that our failure in
that  case was largely due to  the  impatience and vehemence of some persons
among our number. I should certainly hesitate----"
     "As  every Piedmontese always does,"  the dark man interrupted sharply.
"I don't know where  the vehemence and impatience lay, unless you found them
in the strings  of meek  petitions we  sent  in. That may be  vehemence  for
Tuscany or Piedmont,  but we should not  call  it particularly  vehement  in
Naples."
     "Fortunately,"  remarked  the  Piedmontese,  "Neapolitan  vehemence  is
peculiar to Naples."
     "There,  there,  gentlemen,  that  will  do!"  the  professor  put  in.
"Neapolitan  customs  are  very  good things  in  their way and  Piedmontese
customs in theirs; but just now we are  in Tuscany, and the Tuscan custom is
to stick  to  the matter in  hand. Grassini  votes  for petitions and  Galli
against them. What do you think, Dr. Riccardo?"
     "I see no harm  in petitions, and if  Grassini gets one up I'll sign it
with  all  the  pleasure  in  life.  But I don't think mere  petitioning and
nothing else  will accomplish  much.  Why  can't we have  both petitions and
pamphlets?"
     "Simply because the  pamphlets will put the government into a  state of
mind in which it won't grant the petitions," said Grassini.
     "It won't do that anyhow." The Neapolitan  rose and came  across to the
table.  "Gentlemen,  you're on the wrong  tack. Conciliating the  government
will do no good. What we must do is to rouse the people."
     "That's easier said than done; how are you going to start?"
     "Fancy asking Galli that!  Of course he'd start by  knocking the censor
on the head."
     "No, indeed, I shouldn't," said  Galli stoutly. "You always think if  a
man comes from down south he must believe in no argument but cold steel."
     "Well, what do you propose, then? Sh! Attention, gentlemen! Galli has a
proposal to make."
     The whole  company,  which had broken up into little  knots of twos and
threes,  carrying on  separate  discussions,  collected  round the table  to
listen. Galli raised his hands in expostulation.
     "No, gentlemen,  it  is  not a  proposal; it is merely a suggestion. It
appears to me that  there is a great  practical danger in all this rejoicing
over the new Pope. People seem to think  that,  because he  has struck out a
new line and granted this amnesty, we have only to throw ourselves-- all  of
us, the whole of Italy--into his arms and he will carry  us to the  promised
land. Now, I am second to no one in admiration of the Pope's behaviour;  the
amnesty was a splendid action."
     "I am  sure His  Holiness ought to feel  flattered----"  Grassini began
contemptuously.
     "There, Grassini, do  let the  man speak!" Riccardo interrupted in  his
turn. "It's a most extraordinary  thing  that  you  two never can keep  from
sparring like a cat and dog. Get on, Galli!"
     "What I wanted to say  is  this," continued  the  Neapolitan. "The Holy
Father, undoubtedly, is acting with the best intentions; but how far he will
succeed in  carrying his  reforms is another question.  Just now it's smooth
enough and, of course, the reactionists all over Italy will lie quiet  for a
month or two till the excitement about the amnesty blows over;  but they are
not likely to let the power be taken out of their hands without a fight, and
my own belief is that before the  winter is half  over we shall have Jesuits
and  Gregorians and  Sanfedists and all the rest of the crew about our ears,
plotting and intriguing, and poisoning off everybody they can't bribe."
     "That's likely enough."
     "Very well, then; shall we wait here, meekly sending in petitions, till
Lambruschini and his pack have persuaded  the  Grand Duke to  put  us bodily
under Jesuit rule, with perhaps a few Austrian hussars to patrol the streets
and keep us in order; or shall we forestall them and take advantage of their
momentary discomfiture to strike the first blow?"
     "Tell us first what blow you propose?"
     "I would suggest  that we start an  organized propaganda and  agitation
against the Jesuits."
     "A pamphleteering declaration of war, in fact?"
     "Yes;  exposing  their  intrigues,  ferreting  out their  secrets,  and
calling upon the people to make common cause against them."
     "But there are no Jesuits here to expose."
     "Aren't there? Wait three months and see how many we shall  have. It'll
be too late to keep them out then."
     "But  really  to rouse  the town against  the  Jesuits  one must  speak
plainly; and if you do that how will you evade the censorship?"
     "I wouldn't evade it; I would defy it."
     "You would print the  pamphlets anonymously? That's all very well,  but
the fact is, we have all seen enough of the clandestine press to know----"
     "I  did not mean  that. I would  print the  pamphlets openly, with  our
names and addresses, and let them prosecute us if they dare."
     "The project is a perfectly mad one," Grassini exclaimed. "It is simply
putting one's head into the lion's mouth out of sheer wantonness."
     "Oh, you  needn't be afraid!"  Galli cut in  sharply; "we shouldn't ask
you to go to prison for our pamphlets."
     "Hold your tongue, Galli!" said Riccardo. "It's not a question of being
afraid; we're all as ready as you are to go to prison if there's any good to
be  got by  it,  but it is childish to  run  into danger for nothing. For my
part, I have an amendment to the proposal to suggest."
     "Well, what is it?"
     "I  think we might  contrive,  with care,  to fight the Jesuits without
coming into collision with the censorship."
     "I don't see how you are going to manage it."
     "I think  that  it is possible to clothe what  one  has  to say  in  so
roundabout a form that----"
     "That the censorship won't understand it? And then you'll  expect every
poor artisan  and labourer to find out  the  meaning  by the  light  of  the
ignorance  and  stupidity  that  are  in  him!  That   doesn't  sound   very
practicable."
     "Martini,  what do  you  think?" asked  the  professor,  turning  to  a
broad-shouldered man with a great brown beard, who was sitting beside him.
     "I think that I  will reserve my opinion till I have  more  facts to go
upon. It's a question of trying experiments and seeing what comes of them."
     "And you, Sacconi?"
     "I  should  like to hear what Signora Bolla has to say. Her suggestions
are always valuable."
     Everyone turned to the only woman in the room, who  had been sitting on
the  sofa,  resting her chin on  one  hand  and listening in silence  to the
discussion. She had  deep, serious black eyes, but  as  she raised  them now
there was an unmistakable gleam of amusement in them.
     "I am afraid," she said; "that I disagree with everybody."
     "You  always do, and the worst of  it  is that  you are  always right,"
Riccardo put in.
     "I think it  is quite true that we must fight  the Jesuits somehow; and
if we can't do it with one weapon we must with another. But mere defiance is
a feeble weapon and evasion  a cumbersome one. As for petitioning, that is a
child's toy."
     "I hope, signora," Grassini  interposed, with a solemn face;  "that you
are not suggesting such methods as--assassination?"
     Martini tugged at his big moustache and Galli sniggered outright.  Even
the grave young woman could not repress a smile.
     "Believe  me," she  said, "that if I were ferocious  enough to think of
such things  I should not be  childish  enough to  talk about them.  But the
deadliest  weapon I know is ridicule.  If you can once  succeed in rendering
the Jesuits ludicrous, in making  people laugh at them and their claims, you
have conquered them without bloodshed."
     "I believe you  are right, as far  as that goes,"  Fabrizi said; "but I
don't see how you are going to carry the thing through."
     "Why  should we not be able to  carry  it  through?" asked Martini.  "A
satirical  thing  has  a  better  chance  of  getting  over  the  censorship
difficulty  than a  serious  one;  and,  if  it must be cloaked, the average
reader is more likely  to find out the double meaning of an apparently silly
joke than of a scientific or economic treatise."
     "Then  is your  suggestion, signora,  that  we  should issue  satirical
pamphlets, or  attempt  to  run a  comic paper? That  last, I am  sure,  the
censorship would never allow."
     "I don't  mean  exactly either. I believe a series  of  small satirical
leaflets, in verse or prose, to be sold cheap or distributed  free about the
streets, would be very useful.  If we  could find a  clever artist who would
enter into the spirit of the thing, we might have them illustrated."
     "It's a  capital idea, if only one could carry it out; but if the thing
is  to be done at all it must  be  well done. We  should want a  first-class
satirist; and where are we to get him?"
     "You see," added Lega,  "most  of us are serious writers; and, with all
respect  to the company, I am afraid that a general  attempt to be  humorous
would present the spectacle of an elephant trying to dance the tarantella."
     "I never suggested that we  should all  rush into work for which we are
unfitted. My  idea was that we should try to find a really gifted satirist--
there must be one to be got somewhere in Italy, surely--and offer to provide
the necessary funds. Of course we should have  to know something of  the man
and make sure that he would work on lines with which we could agree."
     "But where are you going to find him? I can count up  the satirists  of
any real  talent on the fingers of one hand; and none of them are available.
Giusti wouldn't accept; he is  fully occupied as it is. There are one or two
good men in Lombardy, but they write only in the Milanese dialect----"
     "And moreover,"  said Grassini, "the Tuscan people can be influenced in
better ways than this. I am sure that it would be felt as, to say the least,
a want of political savoir faire if we were to treat this solemn question of
civil and  religious  liberty  as a subject for trifling. Florence is not  a
mere  wilderness of factories  and money-getting like London, nor a haunt of
idle luxury like Paris. It is a city with a great history------"
     "So was Athens," she interrupted, smiling; "but it was 'rather sluggish
from its size and needed a gadfly to rouse it'----"
     Riccardo struck his hand upon the  table. "Why, we never thought of the
Gadfly! The very man!"
     "Who is that?"
     "The  Gadfly--Felice Rivarez. Don't you remember him? One of Muratori's
band that came down from the Apennines three years ago?"
     "Oh,  you  knew  that set, didn't  you? I remember your travelling with
them when they went on to Paris."
     "Yes; I  went as far  as Leghorn to see Rivarez off for Marseilles.  He
wouldn't  stop in Tuscany; he said there  was nothing left to do  but laugh,
once the insurrection had failed, and so he had better go to Paris. No doubt
he agreed with Signor Grassini that Tuscany is the wrong place to laugh  in.
But I am nearly sure he would come back if we asked him, now that there is a
chance of doing something in Italy."
     "What name did you say?"
     "Rivarez. He's a Brazilian, I think. At any  rate,  I know he has lived
out there. He is one of the wittiest men I ever came across. Heaven knows we
had nothing to be merry over, that  week in Leghorn; it  was enough to break
one's heart to  look at  poor  Lambertini;  but there  was no keeping  one's
countenance when  Rivarez was  in the room; it  was  one  perpetual fire  of
absurdities.  He had  a  nasty  sabre-cut across the  face,  too; I remember
sewing it up.  He's an odd creature; but  I believe he and his nonsense kept
some of those poor lads from breaking down altogether."
     "Is that the man who writes political skits in the  French papers under
the name of 'Le Taon'?"
     "Yes; short paragraphs mostly, and  comic feuilletons. The smugglers up
in the Apennines called him 'the Gadfly' because of his  tongue; and he took
the nickname to sign his work with."
     "I know  something about  this gentleman," said  Grassini,  breaking in
upon the conversation in his slow and stately manner; "and I cannot say that
what I have heard  is much to his credit. He undoubtedly possesses a certain
showy,  superficial cleverness,  though  I  think his  abilities  have  been
exaggerated;  and  possibly  he is not lacking in  physical courage; but his
reputation in Paris and Vienna  is,  I believe,  very  far from spotless. He
appears to be a gentleman of--a--a--many adventures and unknown antecedents.
It is  said that  he  was picked up out of  charity  by Duprez's  expedition
somewhere  in   the  wilds  of  tropical  South  America,   in  a  state  of
inconceivable   savagery   and  degradation.   I   believe  he   has   never
satisfactorily  explained  how he came to be in such a condition. As for the
rising in the Apennines, I fear it is no
secret that  persons of  all  characters  took part in that unfortunate
affair. The men who were executed  in Bologna are known to have been nothing
but common malefactors;  and the  character of  many who escaped will hardly
bear description. Without doubt, SOME of the participators were  men of high
character----"
     "Some  of them were the intimate friends of  several  persons  in  this
room!" Riccardo interrupted, with an angry ring in his voice. "It's all very
well   to  be  particular  and  exclusive,   Grassini;   but  these  'common
malefactors' died for their belief, which is more than you or I have done as
yet."
     "And  another time when  people tell you  the  stale gossip of  Paris,"
added  Galli, "you can  tell them from me  that  they are mistaken about the
Duprez expedition.  I know Duprez's adjutant, Martel,  personally,  and have
heard the whole story from him. It's  true that they found  Rivarez stranded
out there. He had been taken prisoner in the war, fighting for the Argentine
Republic,  and had escaped.  He was  wandering about the country in  various
disguises, trying to get back to Buenos Ayres. But the story of their taking
him  on out of charity is  a pure fabrication. Their  interpreter had fallen
ill and been obliged to turn back; and not one of  the Frenchmen could speak
the native languages;  so they offered him the post, and  he spent the whole
three years with them, exploring the tributaries of the  Amazon. Martel told
me he believed they never would have got through the expedition at all if it
had not been for Rivarez."
     "Whatever he may be," said Fabrizi; "there must be something remarkable
about a man who could  lay his 'come  hither'  on  two old  campaigners like
Martel and Duprez as he seems to have done. What do you think, signora?"
     "I know nothing about the  matter; I was in England when  the fugitives
passed through Tuscany. But I should think that  if the companions  who were
with  a  man on a  three  years' expedition  in  savage  countries,  and the
comrades who were with him through an insurrection, think well of him,  that
is recommendation enough to counterbalance a good deal of boulevard gossip."
     "There  is no question about the opinion his comrades had of him," said
Riccardo. "From Muratori and Zambeccari  down to  the  roughest mountaineers
they were all  devoted to him. Moreover,  he is a personal friend of Orsini.
It's quite true,  on  the other hand, that there are  endless  cock-and-bull
stories of a not very pleasant kind going about concerning him in Paris; but
if  a  man doesn't want  to  make enemies he  shouldn't become  a  political
satirist."
     "I'm  not quite sure," interposed Lega; "but it seems to me  that I saw
him once when the refugees were here. Was he not hunchbacked, or crooked, or
something of that kind?"
     The professor had opened a drawer in his  writing-table and was turning
over a heap  of  papers. "I think  I have his  police  description somewhere
here," he said.  "You remember  when they escaped  and  hid in  the mountain
passes  their  personal  appearance  was  posted  up  everywhere,  and  that
Cardinal--what's the scoundrel's name?-- Spinola, offered a reward for their
heads."
     "There was a splendid story about Rivarez and that police paper, by the
way.  He put  on a soldier's  old  uniform and tramped across  country  as a
carabineer wounded  in the discharge  of his  duty  and  trying  to find his
company. He actually got Spinola's search-party to give him a lift, and rode
the whole day in one of their waggons, telling them harrowing stories of how
he had been taken captive by the rebels and dragged off into their haunts in
the mountains,  and of the fearful tortures that he  had suffered  at  their
hands. They showed him  the description paper,  and  he  told  them all  the
rubbish he could  think  of about 'the fiend they call the Gadfly.'  Then at
night, when  they were asleep,  he poured a  bucketful of water  into  their
powder   and  decamped,   with   his   pockets  full   of   provisions   and
ammunition------"
     "Ah, here's the paper," Fabrizi broke in: "'Felice Rivarez, called: The
Gadfly.  Age,  about  30; birthplace and parentage, unknown, probably  South
American; profession, journalist. Short; black hair; black beard; dark skin;
eyes, blue; forehead, broad  and square; nose, mouth, chin------' Yes,  here
it  is:  'Special  marks: right foot  lame;  left arm  twisted;  two ringers
missing on left hand; recent sabre-cut across face; stammers.'  Then there's
a note put: 'Very expert shot; care should be taken in arresting.'"
     "It's an extraordinary thing that  he  can have  managed to deceive the
search-party with such a formidable list of identification marks."
     "It was nothing but sheer audacity that carried him through, of course.
If it had once occurred  to them to suspect him he would have been lost. But
the air of confiding innocence  that  he can put  on when  he  chooses would
bring  a man  through  anything. Well, gentlemen,  what  do you think of the
proposal? Rivarez seems  to be pretty well  known to several of the company.
Shall we suggest to him that we should be glad of his help here or not?"
     "I think," said  Fabrizi, "that he  might  be sounded upon the subject,
just to find out whether he would be inclined to think of the plan."
     "Oh, he'll be inclined, you may be sure, once  it's a case  of fighting
the  Jesuits; he is  the most savage anti-clerical I ever met; in fact, he's
rather rabid on the point."
     "Then will you write, Riccardo?"
     "Certainly. Let me see, where  is he now? In Switzerland, I think. He's
the  most restless  being; always  flitting about. But  as  for the pamphlet
question----"
     They plunged  into a  long and animated discussion.  When at  last  the
company began to disperse Martini went up to the quiet young woman.
     "I will see you home, Gemma."
     "Thanks; I want to have a business talk with you."
     "Anything wrong with the addresses?" he asked softly.
     "Nothing serious; but I think it is time to make a few alterations. Two
letters  have  been  stopped  in the post  this week.  They  were both quite
unimportant, and it may have  been accidental; but we  cannot afford to have
any risks. If once the police have  begun  to suspect any  of our addresses,
they must be changed immediately."
     "I will come  in about that to-morrow. I am not going to talk  business
with you to-night; you look tired."
     "I am not tired."
     "Then you are depressed again."
     "Oh, no; not particularly."
        PART II: CHAPTER II.
     "Is the mistress in, Katie?"
     "Yes,  sir; she is dressing. If you'll just  step into  the parlour she
will be down in a few minutes."
     Katie ushered the visitor  in with the cheerful friendliness  of a true
Devonshire girl. Martini was a  special favourite of hers. He spoke English,
like  a foreigner, of course, but still quite respectably; and he never  sat
discussing  politics  at the top of his voice till  one in the morning, when
the mistress was tired, as  some visitors had a way  of doing.  Moreover, he
had come to Devonshire to  help the  mistress in her trouble, when her  baby
was dead  and her husband dying there; and ever  since  that  time  the big,
awkward, silent man had been to Katie as much "one of the family" as was the
lazy black  cat  which  now ensconced itself  upon  his knee. Pasht, for his
part,  regarded  Martini as  a  useful piece  of  household  furniture. This
visitor never trod upon his tail,  or puffed tobacco smoke into his eyes, or
in any way  obtruded upon his consciousness an aggressive biped personality.
He behaved as a mere man should: provided a comfortable knee to lie upon and
purr, and at table never forgot that to look on while human beings  eat fish
is not  interesting for a cat. The friendship between them was of  old date.
Once, when  Pasht was a kitten and his  mistress too ill to think about him,
he had  come  from England under  Martini's care,  tucked away  in a basket.
Since  then, long experience had convinced him that  this clumsy human  bear
was no fair-weather friend.
     "How  snug you look, you two!" said  Gemma, coming into the room.  "One
would think you had settled yourselves for the evening."
     Martini carefully lifted the cat off his knee. "I came early," he said,
"in the  hope that  you  will  give me some tea before  we start. There will
probably  be  a frightful crush, and Grassini won't  give  us  any  sensible
supper--they never do in those fashionable houses."
     "Come now!" she said, laughing; "that's as  bad as Galli! Poor Grassini
has quite  enough  sins of his own  to answer for without having  his wife's
imperfect housekeeping visited upon his head. As  for  the  tea,  it will be
ready in a minute. Katie has been making some Devonshire cakes specially for
you."
     "Katie is a good soul, isn't she, Pasht? By the way, so are you to have
put on that pretty dress. I was afraid you would forget."
     "I  promised you I would wear it,  though  it is  rather warm for a hot
evening like this."
     "It will be much cooler up at Fiesole; and  nothing else ever suits you
so well as white cashmere. I have brought you some flowers to wear with it."
     "Oh, those lovely cluster roses; I am  so  fond of them! But  they  had
much better go into water. I hate to wear flowers."
     "Now that's one of your superstitious fancies."
     "No, it  isn't; only I think they must  get so bored, spending all  the
evening pinned to such a dull companion."
     "I am  afraid we shall all be bored to-night. The conversazione will be
dull beyond endurance."
     "Why?"
     "Partly  because   everything  Grassini  touches  becomes  as  dull  as
himself."
     "Now don't be spiteful. It is not fair when we are going  to be a man's
guests."
     "You are always right, Madonna. Well then, it will be dull because half
the interesting people are not coming."
     "How is that?"
     "I don't know. Out of town, or ill, or something. Anyway, there will be
two or three ambassadors and some learned Germans, and the usual nondescript
crowd of tourists  and Russian princes and  literary club people, and  a few
French  officers;  nobody else that  I know of--except, of  course, the  new
satirist, who is to be the attraction of the evening."
     "The new satirist? What, Rivarez? But I thought Grassini disapproved of
him so strongly."
     "Yes; but  once the man is  here  and  is  sure to be talked about,  of
course  Grassini  wants his  house to  be the first place where the new lion
will be  on show. You may be sure  Rivarez  has  heard nothing of Grassini's
disapproval. He may have guessed it, though; he's sharp enough."
     "I did not even know he had come."
     "He only  arrived  yesterday. Here comes the tea. No, don't get up; let
me fetch the kettle."
     He was never so happy as  in this little study. Gemma's friendship, her
grave unconsciousness of the  charm  she exercised over  him,  her frank and
simple comradeship were the brightest things for him in a life that was none
too  bright; and  whenever he began to feel more than  usually depressed  he
would come in  here  after  business  hours  and sit with her,  generally in
silence, watching her as she bent over her needlework or poured out tea. She
never questioned him about his troubles or expressed any  sympathy in words;
but  he  always went  away  stronger and  calmer, feeling, as  he  put it to
himself, that he could "trudge through another fortnight quite respectably."
She possessed, without knowing  it, the rare gift  of consolation; and when,
two years  ago, his  dearest friends had been betrayed in Calabria and  shot
down like wolves,  her steady  faith had been  perhaps the  thing  which had
saved him from despair.
     On  Sunday  mornings he  sometimes  came  in  to "talk  business," that
expression  standing for  anything connected with the  practical work of the
Mazzinian party, of which they both were active and devoted members. She was
quite a different creature then; keen, cool, and logical, perfectly accurate
and perfectly neutral. Those who saw her only at her political work regarded
her as a trained and  disciplined  conspirator, trustworthy,  courageous, in
every way a  valuable  member of the party, but somehow lacking in life  and
individuality. "She's a born  conspirator, worth any dozen of us; and she is
nothing more," Galli had said of her. The "Madonna Gemma" whom Martini  knew
was very difficult to get at.
     "Well, and what is your 'new satirist' like?"  she asked, glancing back
over  her shoulder as  she opened the  sideboard. "There, Cesare, there  are
barley-sugar  and  candied  angelica  f