the most atrocious crimes. This must all be
explained to me, and by this Obed Chute, who is the only living
person who can do it."

"I am glad that what I have done will be useful to you," said
Gualtier. "You may trust to me now to do all that man can do. I will
go and watch and wait till you come."

Hilda thereupon expressed the deepest gratitude to him, and she did
this in language far more earnest than any which she had ever before
used to him. It may have been the consciousness that this would be
the last service which he was to perform for her; it may have been an
intentional recognition of his past acts of love and devotion; it may
have been a tardy act of recognition of all his fidelity and
constancy; but, whatever it was, her words sank deep into his soul.

"Those words," said he, "are a reward for all the past. May I not yet
hope for a future reward?"

"You may, my friend. Did I not give you my promise?"

"_Hilda_!"

This word burst from him. It was the first time that he had so
addressed her. Not even in the hour of his triumph and coercion had
he ventured upon this. But now her kindness had emboldened him. He
took her hand, and pressed it to his lips.

"I have a presentiment of evil," said he. "We may never meet again.
But you will not forget me?"

Hilda gave a long sigh.

"If we meet again," said she, "we shall see enough of one another.
If not"--and she paused for a moment--"if not, then"--and a solemn
cadence came to her voice--"then you will be the one who will
remember, and _I_ shall be the one _to be remembered_. Farewell, my
friend!"

She held out her hand.

Once more Gualtier pressed it to his lips.

Then he took his departure.

CHAPTER LXXI.

A RACE FOR LIFE.

On leaving Hilda Gualtier went out to the villa. Before his departure
he furnished himself with a new disguise, different from his former
one, and one, too, which he thought would be better adapted to his
purposes of concealment. A gray wig, a slouched hat, and the dress of
a peasant, served to give him the appearance of an aged countryman,
while a staff which he held in his hand, and a stoop in his
shoulders, heightened the disguise. He got a lift on a wine-cart for
some miles, and at length reached a place not far away from the
villa.

The villa itself, as it rose up from among surrounding trees, on a
spur of the Apennines, was in sight. On either side of the valley
rose the mountains. The Arno, as it wound a