ade and
occupation, and exacting its dues by means of agents well known to be
capable of the greatest crimes. Caffarelli, who had long employed its
services to assist him in his intrigues or accomplish his vengeances,
was a splendid contributor to its resources. He was rich and munificent;
he loved profusion, but he adored it when it could be made the
mainspring of some dark and mysterious machinery. Though the Camorra was
not in the remotest degree political, Caffarelli learned, through its
agency, that the revolutionary party were hourly gaining strength and
courage. They saw the growing discontent that spread abroad about
the ruling dynasty, and they knew how little favor would be shown
the Bourbons by the Western Powers, whose counsels had been so flatly
rejected, and whose warnings despised. They felt that their hour was
approaching, and that Northern Italy would soon hasten to their aid if
the work of overthrow were once fairly begun. Their only doubts were
lest the success, when achieved, should have won nothing for them. It
may be as in Forty-eight, said they; we may drive the king out of
Naples as we drove the Austrians out of Milan, and, after all, only be
conquering a larger kingdom for the House of Savoy. Hence they hesitated
and held back; nor were their fears causeless. For what had revolution
poured forth its blood like water in Paris? To raise up the despotism of
the Second Empire!

Caffarelli was in possession of all this; he knew what they hoped
and wished and feared. The Camorra itself numbered many professed
revolutionists ("Reds," as they liked to be called) in its sect, but
was itself untinctured by politics. The wily Count thought that it was
a pity so good an organization should be wasted on mere extortion and
robbery. There were higher crimes they might attain to, and grander
interests they might subserve. Never, perhaps, was the world of Europe
so much in the hands of a few powerful men. Withdraw from it, say, half
a dozen,--one could name them at once,--and what a change might come
over the Continent! Caffarelli was no assassin; but there are men, and
he was one of them, that can trifle with great crimes, just as children
play with fire; who can jest with them, laugh at them, and sport with
them, till, out of mere familiarity, they forget the horror they should
inspire and the penalty they enforce. He had known Orsini intimately,
and liked him; nor did he talk of his memory with less affection