ance with the minister assumed
something of the character of friendship. I was then in a position to
advocate your cause, and to state your original reluctance to enter into
the plots of the insurgents. I admitted freely that you had such natural
desire for the independence of your native land, that, had the standard
of Italy been boldly hoisted by its legitimate chiefs, or at the common
uprising of its whole people, you would have been found in the van,
amidst the ranks of your countrymen; but I maintained that you would
never have shared in a conspiracy frantic in itself, and defiled by the
lawless schemes and sordid ambition of its main projectors, had you not
been betrayed and decoyed into it by the misrepresentations and
domestic treachery of your kinsman,--the very man who denounced you.
Unfortunately, of this statement I had no proof but your own word. I
made, however, so far an impression in your favour, and, it may be,
against the traitor, that your property was not confiscated to the
State, nor handed over, upon the plea of your civil death, to your
kinsman."

"How!--I do not understand. Peschiera has the property?"

"He holds the revenues but of one half upon pleasure, and they would be
withdrawn, could I succeed in establishing the case that exists against
him. I was forbidden before to mention this to you; the minister, not
inexcusably, submitted you to the probation of unconditional exile.
Your grace might depend upon your own forbearance from further
conspiracies--forgive the word. I need not say I was permitted to return
to Lombardy. I found, on my arrival, that--that your unhappy wife
had been to my house, and exhibited great despair at hearing of my
departure."

Riccabocca knit his dark brows, and breathed hard.

"I did not judge it necessary to acquaint you with this circumstance,
nor did it much affect me. I believed in her guilt--and what could now
avail her remorse, if remorse she felt? Shortly afterwards, I heard that
she was no more."

"Yes," muttered Riccabocca, "she died in the same year that I left
Italy. It must be a strong reason that can excuse a friend for reminding
me even that she once lived!"

"I come at once to that reason," said L'Estrange, gently. "This autumn I
was roaming through Switzerland, and, in one of my pedestrian excursions
amidst the mountains, I met with an accident, which confined me for some
days to a sofa at a little inn in an obscure village. My hostess was
an