emost in his thoughts, and began, for
the hundredth time, to dwell upon every circumstance that had impressed
itself upon his mind on the mysterious night when he had seen the man at
his mother's. Again the man jostled him in the crooked street, again
he followed the man and lost him, again he came upon the man in the
court-yard looking at the house, again he followed the man and stood
beside him on the door-steps.

'Who passes by this road so late?
Compagnon de la Majolaine;
Who passes by this road so late?
Always gay!'

It was not the first time, by many, that he had recalled the song of the
child's game, of which the fellow had hummed @ verse while they stood
side by side; but he was so unconscious of having repeated it audibly,
that he started to hear the next verse.

'Of all the king's knights 'tis the flower,
Compagnon de la Majolaine;
Of all the king's knights 'tis the flower,
Always gay!'

Cavalletto had deferentially suggested the words and tune, supposing him
to have stopped short for want of more.

'Ah! You know the song, Cavalletto?'

'By Bacchus, yes, sir! They all know it in France. I have heard it many
times, sung by the little children. The last time when it I have heard,'
said Mr Baptist, formerly Cavalletto, who usually went back to his
native construction of sentences when his memory went near home, 'is
from a sweet little voice. A little voice, very pretty, very innocent.
Altro!'

'The last time I heard it,' returned Arthur, 'was in a voice quite the
reverse of pretty, and quite the reverse of innocent.' He said it more
to himself than to his companion, and added to himself, repeating
the man's next words. 'Death of my life, sir, it's my character to be
impatient!'

'EH!' cried Cavalletto, astounded, and with all his colour gone in a
moment.

'What is the matter?'

'Sir! You know where I have heard that song the last time?'

With his rapid native action, his hands made the outline of a high hook
nose, pushed his eyes near together, dishevelled his hair, puffed out
his upper lip to represent a thick moustache, and threw the heavy end
of an ideal cloak over his shoulder. While doing this, with a swiftness
incredible to one who has not watched an Italian peasant, he indicated a
very remarkable and sinister smile.

The whole change passed over him like a flash of light, and he stood in
the same instant, pale and astoni