f
robbing him? Pina and I have a comb and piece of soap between us! As for
money, she may have a little small change, for all I know, but I have
nothing.'

'I have a good deal,' Stradella answered; 'quite enough to justify such
an accusation as that. But, after all, nothing can hinder such a thing,
if it is going to be. I dare say you are right--it is my anxiety for you
that makes me think of everything that might happen.'

'Nothing will happen,' Ortensia said softly, 'nothing will happen to
part us!'

Still holding his hand, she gazed into his eyes with an expression of
ecstatic happiness, and she could not have found another word, even if
she had needed speech; then suddenly her bare arm circled his neck like
a flash of white light, for he was very close to her, and she took him
unawares and kissed him first.

She laid her head upon his breast a moment later, and he pressed her to
him and buried his face in her sweet auburn hair. His heart overflowed
in many soft and loving words.

The door opened while he was speaking, and both started and sat upright,
expecting to see Pina, and ashamed to be surprised even by her. Then
Ortensia uttered a sharp cry and Stradella sprang to his feet.

Two big men in rusty black and long boots had entered the room, and were
advancing. They were broad-shouldered men, of a determined bearing, with
sinister faces, and both wore swords and kept their slouch hats on their
heads. Stradella was unarmed, and could only stand before Ortensia,
awaiting their onset, for he had not a doubt but that they were Bravi
sent by Pignaver to murder him. To his surprise they stopped before him,
and one of them spoke.

'You had better come quietly with us,' the man said.

Stradella understood at once that the two intruders were sbirri, come to
arrest him, and he was sure that Pignaver had pursued precisely the
course he had explained to Ortensia, and that he was going to be accused
of robbery.

'I am a Sicilian and a Spanish subject,' he said. 'By what right do you
dare to arrest me?'

'We know very well that you are a Sicilian, Master Bartolo,' answered
the man. 'And as for the rest, it is known to you, so come with us and
make no trouble, or it will be the worse for you.'

'My name is not Bartolo!' cried the musician indignantly. 'I am
Alessandro Stradella, the singer.'

'Any one can say that,' replied the man. 'Come along! No nonsense, now!'

'I tell you, I am Stradella----'

But the ma