rtle you," he said, rapidly, in his
native tongue; "forgive me, little daughter. We go away to-night, I and
the man Kirski, whom you saved from madness: we are ordered away; it is
possible I may never see you again. Now listen."

He took a seat beside her; in his hurry and eagerness he had for the
moment abandoned his airy manner.

"When I came here I expected to see you a school-girl--some one in
safe-keeping--with no troubles to think of. You are a woman; you may
have trouble; and it is I, Calabressa, who would then cut off my right
hand to help you. I said I would leave you my address; I cannot. I dare
not tell any one even where I am going. What of that? Look well at this
card."

He placed before her a small bit of pasteboard, with some lines marked
on it.

"Now we will imagine that some day you are in great trouble; you know
not what to do; and you suddenly, bethink yourself, 'Now it is
Calabressa, and the friends of Calabressa, who must help me--'"

"Pardon me, signore," said Natalie, gently. "To whom should I go but to
my father, if I were in trouble? And why should one anticipate trouble?
If it were to come, perhaps one might be able to brave it."

"My little daughter, you vex me. You must listen. If no trouble comes,
well! If it does, are you any the worse for knowing that there are many
on whom you can rely? Very well; look! This is the Via Roma in Naples."

"I know it," said Natalie: why should she not humor the good-natured
old albino, who had been a friend of her mother's?

"You go along it until you come to this little lane; it is the Vico
Carlo; you ascend the lane--here is the first turning--you go round, and
behold! the entrance to a court. The court is dark, but there is a lamp
burning all day; go farther in, there are wine-vaults. You enter the
wine-vaults, and say, 'Bartolotti.' You do not say, 'Is Signor
Bartolotti at home?' or, 'Can I see the illustrious Signor Bartolotti,'
but 'Bartolotti,' clear and short. You understand?"

"You give yourself too much trouble, signore."

"I hope so, little daughter. I hope you will never have to search for
these wine-vaults; but who knows? _Alors_, one comes to you, and says,
'What is your pleasure, signorina?' Then you ask, 'Where is Calabressa?'
The answer to that? It may be, 'We do not know;' or it may be,
'Calabressa is in prison again,' or it may be,'Calabressa is dead.'
Never mind. When Calabressa dies, no one will care less than Calabressa
hims