long walk. He intrusted his luggage to a

light in the soft elasticity of the wet grass under his feet and in the shy, wondering eyes of the wild spring flowers by the roadside. In a thorn-acacia

ttempt and allowed his fancy to drift away to the wonders and glories of the coming insurrection, and to the part in it that he had allotted to his two idols. The Padre was to be the leader, the apostle, the pro

der, rejoicing under the winged death-storm; and they would die together, perhaps in the moment of victory-without doubt there would be a victory. Of his love he would tell her nothing; he would say no word that might disturb her peace or spoil her tranquil se

eat, dreary house in the "Street of Palaces," and Julia's butler, immaculat

Gibbons; are

and Mrs. Burton. They

furniture and ugly plate, nor the vulgar ostentation of riches, nor the lifeless aspect of everything. Even the flowers on the brass stands looked like painted metal flowers that had never known the stirring of young sap within them in the warm sp

moment, and then transferring them to the more congenial contact of the lap-dog's si

ence. The arrival of James, in his most pompous mood and accompanied by a stiff, elderly shipping-agent, did no

Julia. If you'll excuse

, my boy," said Thomas; "I am

! Good-

er housemaid and asked her to knoc

ino is goin

od-night

destal occupied the middle of the altar; and before it hung a little Roman lamp. This was the room where she had died. Her portrait was on the wall beside the bed; and on the ta

pper-tray on which the old Italian cook, who had served Gladys before the harsh, new mistress came, had placed such little delicacies as she considered her dear signorino might permit himself to eat without infringing the rules of the

ons, and they had gone to his head like strong wine. Little quivers of excitement went down his back, and the crucifix swam in a misty cloud before his eyes. It was only after a long litany, mechanically repeated, that he succeeded in recalli

his door. "Ah, Teresa!" he thought, turning over lazily.

d a man's voice in Italian;

umped ou

he matter?

ta. Get up, quick, f

at the coachman's pale, terrified face, the sound of tramping feet and cl

" he ask

make haste! What have you

to hide. Do my

appeared at the tu

ke. Alas! what a misfortune-what a terrible misfo

a shivering crowd of servants in various impromptu costumes. As the soldiers surrounded Arthur, the master and mistress of the house

nd these couples are coming to the ark!

sense of its jarring incongruity-this was a time for worthier thoughts. "Ave Maria, Regina Coeli!" he whis

ing of this violent intrusion into a private house? I warn you that, unless you are prepared to fu

ador certainly will." He pulled out a warrant for the arrest of Arthur Burton, student of philosophy, and, handing it t

ced over it, and flew at Arthur like nothing el

he town gaping and staring as if the thing were a show? So you have turned jail-bird, no

dam," the officer interrupted; but his remonstrance was har

r and saintly meditation; and this is what was under

d upset the vinegar cruet. The sound of her thin, hard voice set Art

ny unpleasantness; everyone will understand that you are all quite innocent.

The search did not disquiet him. He had always burned letters which could possibly compromise anyone, and beyond a few manuscript verses, half revolutionary, half mystical, and two or three numbers of Young Italy, the genda

ing to look indifferent, approached the officer and asked permission to speak to the priso

nally awkward business.

ning. "You have always been good to me," he said. "The

l and plunged head first into the awkward question. "Is-a

, no! What could

n in the mouth-and never mind all the stuff Julia talks. It's only her spit

the room with a carefully made-up expression of unc

ut on his outdoor clothes. He obeyed at once and turned to leave the room; then stopped with sudden

or a moment?" he asked. "You see that I canno

is forbidden to leav

, it doesn

sed the feet and pedestal of the crucifix, whisp

the table, examining Montanelli's portrait

essor, the new Bis

sing his hands and dress with passionate grief. Gian Battista stood by, the tears dripping down his gray moustache. None of the Burtons came out to take leave

s for me. Good-bye, Teresa. Pray for me, all

er only a little group of silent men and sobbing women st