the
scholar's lodging, or be seen in the neighbourhood, so great was his
fear of arousing Basterga's suspicions and setting him on his guard.

At the end of a fortnight or so, the choice of ways was presented to him
in a concrete form; and with an abruptness which placed him on the edge
of perplexity. It was at a morning meeting of the smaller council. The
day was dull, the chamber warm, the business to be transacted
monotonous; and Blondel, far from well and interested in one thing
only--beside which the most important affairs of Geneva seemed small as
the doings of an ant-hill viewed through a glass--had fallen asleep, or
nearly asleep. Naturally a restless and wakeful man, of thin habit and
nervous temperament, he had never done such a thing before: and it was
unfortunate that he succumbed on this occasion, for while he drowsed the
current of business changed. The debate grew serious, even vital.
Finally he awoke to the knowledge of place and time with a name ringing
in his ears; a name so fixed in his waking thoughts that, before he knew
where he was or what he was doing, he repeated it in a tone that drew
all eyes upon him.

"Basterga!"

Some knew he had slept and smiled; more had not noticed it, and turned,
struck by the strange tone in which he echoed the name. Fabri, the First
Syndic, who sat two places from him, and had just taken a letter from
the secretary, leaned forward so as to view him. "Ay, Basterga," he
said, "an Italian, I take it. Do you know him, Messer Blondel?"

He was awake now, but, confused and startled, inclined to believe that
he was on his trial; and that the faint parleyings with treason, small
things hard to define, to which he had stooped, were known.
Mechanically, to gain time, he repeated the name: "Basterga?"

"Yes," Fabri repeated. "Do you know him?"

"Caesar Basterga, is it?"

"That is his name."

He was himself now, though his nerves still shook; himself so far as he
could be, while ignorant of what had passed, and how he came to be
challenged. "Yes, I know him," he said slowly, "if you mean a Paduan, a
scholar of some note, I believe. Who applied to me--I dare say it would
be six weeks back--for a licence to stay a while in the town."

"Which you granted?"

"In the usual course. He had letters from"--Blondel shrugged his
shoulders--"I forget from whom. What of him?" with a steady look at
Baudichon the councillor, his life-long rival, and the quarter whence if
trouble w