as to be
only half intelligible.

"This gentleman," he said, indicating the shaggy melodramatist, "has but
now arrived by the morning train from Paris. The hour is here at last.
Louis Philippe has run away, and by this hour we suspect he is in
England. You know what that means for us?"

I knew what it meant very well, but I was not disposed to believe the
story without examination. I found that the messenger spoke no word of
any language but his own, and resolved on carrying him at once to Count
Rossano. To that end I called a hackney-coach, not greatly caring, I
confess it, to be seen in broad daylight in London streets with such an
astonishing pair of guys as poor old Ruffiano and his friend.

The count was at home, and, receiving us at once, heard the story with
an excitement equal to that of the narrator. When it was ended he turned
on me with the very phrase Ruffiano had used: "The hour is here!"

"You can trust this man?" I asked.

"Absolutely," he responded.

I confessed that I should prefer to await a confirmation of his story by
the newspapers, but the count interrupted me with a wave of the hand.

"You will see," he said, "that the newspapers will confirm the story
to-morrow, and in the meantime we shall have saved a day. France is
awake, and the awaking of France is the dawn of liberty for Italy. We
must hold a meeting to-night. You will wait?" he asked me. "I have a
hundred things to talk of, but I must first despatch Count Ruffiano to
our friends."

"Yes," cried Ruffiano, with a more than common emphasis on the
superfluous vowels he used, "we must meet to-night. The hour is here. In
a week from now we shall have the usurper by the throat. Wait but a
day, and you shall hear such news from Milano! They are ready there, and
there will be no holding them back this time."

The count silenced him, and gave him rapid instructions in Italian. I
could follow most of what he said in this case, for I was familiar
with every name he mentioned. He was calling out the astutest and most
influential of the Italian refugees then in London. The revolutionary
Italian party, like all the revolutionary parties known to history, was
split up into sections. There were moderates and immoderates among them,
men to whom the name of Carlo Alberto was an oriflamme, and others to
whom it was the very signal of scorn and loathing. The count was calling
the extremists of both schools together, and Ruffiano expostulated.

"Th