proached the officer
and asked permission to speak to the prisoner. Receiving a nod in
answer, he went up to Arthur and muttered in a rather husky voice:

"I say; this is an infernally awkward business. I'm very sorry about
it."

Arthur looked up with a face as serene as a summer morning. "You have
always been good to me," he said. "There's nothing to be sorry about. I
shall be safe enough."

"Look here, Arthur!" Thomas gave his moustache a hard pull and plunged
head first into the awkward question. "Is--all this anything to do
with--money? Because, if it is, I----"

"With money! Why, no! What could it have to do----"

"Then it's some political tomfoolery? I thought so. Well, don't you get
down in the mouth--and never mind all the stuff Julia talks. It's only
her spiteful tongue; and if you want help,--cash, or anything,--let me
know, will you?"

Arthur held out his hand in silence, and Thomas left the room with a
carefully made-up expression of unconcern that rendered his face more
stolid than ever.

The gendarmes, meanwhile, had finished their search, and the officer in
charge requested Arthur to put on his outdoor clothes. He obeyed at once
and turned to leave the room; then stopped with sudden hesitation. It
seemed hard to take leave of his mother's oratory in the presence of
these officials.

"Have you any objection to leaving the room for a moment?" he asked.
"You see that I cannot escape and that there is nothing to conceal."

"I am sorry, but it is forbidden to leave a prisoner alone."

"Very well, it doesn't matter."

He went into the alcove, and, kneeling down, kissed the feet and
pedestal of the crucifix, whispering softly: "Lord, keep me faithful
unto death."

When he rose, the officer was standing by the table, examining
Montanelli's portrait. "Is this a relative of yours?" he asked.

"No; it is my confessor, the new Bishop of Brisighella."

On the staircase the Italian servants were waiting, anxious and
sorrowful. They all loved Arthur for his own sake and his mother's, and
crowded round him, kissing his hands and dress with passionate grief.
Gian Battista stood by, the tears dripping down his gray moustache. None
of the Burtons came out to take leave of him. Their coldness accentuated
the tenderness and sympathy of the servants, and Arthur was near to
breaking down as he pressed the hands held out to him.

"Good-bye, Gian Battista. Kiss the little ones for me. Good-bye, Teresa.
Pray fo