t consequences might have ensued from this last interruption must be
left to mere guess, for the door of the chamber was now opened to its
widest to admit a gentleman, who came forward with the air of one in a
certain authority. He was no other than the Count of the night before,
who had so generously thrown his protection over the strollers.
Advancing to where the Prefetto sat, he leaned one arm on the table,
while he spoke to him in a low voice.

The judge listened with deference and attention, his manner being
suddenly converted into the very lowest sycophancy. When it came to his
turn to speak, 'Certainly, Signor Conte; unquestionable,' muttered
he. 'It is enough that your Excellency deigns to express a wish on the
subject,' and, with many a bow, he accompanied him to the door. A brief
nod to the youth Gerald was the only sign of recognition he gave, and
the Count withdrew.

'This case is prorogued,' said the Prefetto solemnly. 'The Court will
inform itself upon its merits, and convoke the parties on some future
day.' And now the gendarmes proceeded to clear the hall, huddling out
together plaintiffs and prisoners and witnesses, all loudly inveighing,
protesting, denouncing, and explaining what nobody listened to or cared
for.

'_Eh viva!_' exclaimed old Gaetana, as she reached the open air,
'there's more justice here than I looked for.'

CHAPTER XVI. THE POET'S HOUSE

It was late on the evening of the same day that Gerald received a
message to say the Count desired to see him. No little jealousy was
occasioned among his companions by this invitation. The Babbo deemed
that, as 'Impressario' of the company, he ought himself to have been
selected. Donna Gaetana was indignant that a mere Giovane was to occupy
the responsible station of representing their dramatic guild; and even
Marietta felt her eyes to swim, as she thought over this mere passing
separation, and in her heart foreboded some ill to come of it. She,
however, did her very best to master these unworthy fears. She washed
the bloody stains carefully off his forehead. She combed and oiled his
long silky hair. She aided him to dress in the one only suit that now
remained of all his wardrobe--a page's dress of light blue, with
a little scarlet mantle, embroidered in silver, and a small bonnet
surmounted by an ostrich feather. Nor was it without deep shame, and
something very like open rebellion, that Gerald donned these motley
habiliments.

'The C