with the drums beating.'

I could not share his joy. The weight which is upon me now oppressed me
then; and when the door closed upon the advocate, I could only sit upon
my bed and think, with a heart that ached and burned, of the terror
which waited on Cecilia.

CHAPTER VI.--THE END.

Whilst I lay waiting for the day of trial, I learned from my counsel
that my fellow-prisoner was identified as one Giovanni Fornajo, an old
companion of Charles Grammont. This man was known to have rifled his
dead friend's clothing, and the popular impression appeared to be that I
had either committed the murder from some other motive than cupidity, or
had been disturbed, and that this poor scoundrel had striven to profit
by my crime. Against us both the popular feeling was intense. It was
noted by the crowd that both Fornajo and myself were naturalised British
subjects, and that fact alone might have created considerable prejudice
against us, because to the ignorant mind it bespoke the repudiation of
our native land--a thing from which I am utterly afar in my own mind.
I am proud of Italy, and I am proud of Naples, and I have no idea
of pretending to be other than a Neapolitan. One can be cosmopolitan
without losing one's patriotism, I venture respectfully to hope. But I
would not have cared then to set myself right with the populace of my
native city, either on that or any other point, though I could have done
it with a word. It was natural and illogical to scorn the people for
believing in my guilt, whilst I allowed them to believe it. Yet I felt
against them a sort of lofty anger, and felt myself affronted to think
that anybody could regard me as being even likely to commit a murder.
Ratuzzi was kind throughout, even when he believed me guilty; and Mr.
Gregory after his first visit never failed me. I asked him news of
Clyde, but he had no news to bring me until two days before my trial,
when he came into my cell with a grave but not uncheerful countenance.

'Calvotti,' he said, 'can you tell me with any precision the hour at
which you saw Arthur on that fatal night?'

'I can only guess the time,' I answered. 'But why do you ask?' I
questioned in my turn.

'Because,' he replied, 'I believe it possible that you may have mistaken
somebody else for Arthur, and because I have evidence that he could not
be near the place at the time at which we know that the murder must have
been committed.'

For one moment hope beamed within