LITMIR.BIZ

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is one of a pestiferous excess, in point of numbers, but that he is no true son of earth. He escaped out of hell’s doors on a windy day, and all that we do is to puff out a bad light, and send him back. Look at this fellow in whom conscience is operating so that he appears like a corked volcano! You can see that he takes Austrian money; his skin has got to be the exact colour of Munz. He has the greenish-yellow eyes of those elective, thrice-abhorred vampyres who feed on patriot-blood. He is condemned without trial by his villainous countenance, like an ungrammatical preface to a book. His tongue refuses to confess, but nature is stronger:—observe his knees. Now this is guilt. It is execrable guilt. He is a nasty object. Nature has in her wisdom shortened his stature to indicate that it is left to us to shorten the growth of his offending years. Now, you dangling soul! answer me:—what name hailed you when on earth?”

      The fan, with no clearly serviceable tongue, articulated, “Luigi.”

      “Luigi! the name Christian and distinctive. The name historic:-Luigi Porco?”

      “Luigi Saracco, signore.”

      “Saracco: Saracco: very possibly a strip of the posterity of cut-throat Moors. To judge by your face, a Moor undoubtedly: glib, slippery! with a body that slides and a soul that jumps. Taken altogether, more serpent than eagle. I misdoubt that little quick cornering eye of yours. Do you ever remember to have blushed?”

      “No, signore,” said Luigi.

      “You spy upon the signorina, do you?”

      “You have Beppo’s word for that,” interposed Marco Sana, growling.

      “And you are found spying on the mountain this particular day! Luigi Saracco, you are a fellow of a tremendous composition. A goose walking into a den of foxes is alone to be compared to you,—if ever such goose was! How many of us did you count, now, when you were, say, a quarter of a mile below?”

      Marco interposed again: “He has already seen enough up here to make a rope of florins.”

      “The fellow’s eye takes likenesses,” said Giulio.

      Agostino’s question was repeated by Corte, and so sternly that Luigi, beholding kindness upon no other face save Vittoria’s, watched her, and muttering “Six,” blinked his keen black eyes piteously to get her sign of assent to his hesitated naming of that number. Her mouth and the turn of her head were expressive to him, and he cried “Seven.”

      “So; first six, and next seven,” said Corte.

      “Six, I meant, without the signorina,” Luigi explained.

      “You saw six of us without the signorina! You see we are six here, including the signorina. Where is the seventh?”

      Luigi tried to penetrate Vittoria’s eyes for a proper response; but she understood the grave necessity for getting the full extent of his observations out of him, and she looked as remorseless as the men. He feigned stupidity and sullenness, rage and cunning, in quick succession.

      “Who was the seventh?” said Carlo.

      “Was it the king?” Luigi asked.

      This was by just a little too clever; and its cleverness, being seen, magnified the intended evasion so as to make it appear to them that Luigi knew well the name of the seventh.

      Marco thumped a hand on his shoulder, shouting—“Here; speak out! You saw seven of us. Where has the seventh one gone?”

      Luigi’s wits made a dash at honesty. “Down Orta, signore.”

      “And down Orta, I think, you will go; deeper down than you may like.”

      Corte now requested Vittoria to stand aside. He motioned to her with his hand to stand farther, and still farther off; and finally told Carlo to escort her to Baveno. She now began to think that the man Luigi was in some perceptible danger, nor did Ammiani disperse the idea.

      “If he is a spy, and if he has seen the Chief, we shall have to detain him for at least four-and-twenty hours,” he said, “or do worse.”

      “But, Signor Carlo,”—Vittoria made appeal to his humanity,—“do they mean, if they decide that he is guilty, to hurt him?”

      “Tell me, signorina, what punishment do you imagine a spy deserves?”

      “To be called one!”

      Carlo smiled at her lofty method of dealing with the animal.

      “Then you presume him to have a conscience?”

      “I am sure, Signor Carlo, that I could make him loathe to be called a spy.”

      They were slowly pacing from the group, and were on the edge of the descent, when the signorina’s name was shrieked by Luigi. The man came running to her for protection, Beppo and the rest at his heels. She allowed him to grasp her hand.

      “After all, he is my spy; he does belong to me,” she said, still speaking on to Carlo. “I must beg your permission, Colonel Corte and Signor Marco, to try an experiment. The Signor Carlo will not believe that a spy can be ashamed of his name.—Luigi!”

      “Signorina!”—he shook his body over her hand with a most plaintive utterance.

      “You are my countryman, Luigi?”

      “Yes, signorina.”

      “You are an Italian?”

      “Certainly, signorina!”

      “A spy!”

      Vittoria had not always to lift her voice in music for it to sway the hearts of men. She spoke the word very simply in a mellow soft tone. Luigi’s blood shot purple. He thrust his fists against his ears.

      “See, Signor Carlo,” she said; “I was right. Luigi, you will be a spy no more?”

      Carlo Ammiani happened to be rolling a cigarette-paper. She put out her fingers for it, and then reached it to Luigi, who accepted it with singular contortions of his frame, declaring that he would confess everything to her. “Yes, signorina, it is true; I am a spy on you. I know the houses you visit. I know you eat too much chocolate for your voice. I know you are the friend of the Signora Laura, the widow of Giacomo Piaveni, shot—shot on Annunciation Day. The Virgin bless him! I know the turning of every street from your house near the Duomo to the signora’s. You go nowhere else, except to the maestro’s. And it’s something to spy upon you. But think of your Beppo who spies upon me! And your little mother, the lady most excellent, is down in Baveno, and she is always near you when you make an expedition. Signorina, I know you would not pay your Beppo for spying upon me. Why does he do it? I do not sing ‘Italia, Italia shall be free!’ I have heard you when I was under the maestro’s windows; and once you sang it to the Signor Agostino Balderini. Indeed, signorina, I am a sort of guardian of your voice. It is not gold of the Tedeschi I get from the Signor Antonio Pericles.”

      At the mention of this name, Agostino and Vittoria laughed out.

      “You are in the pay of the Signor Antonio-Pericles,” said Agostino. “Without being in our pay, you have done us the service to come up here among us! Bravo! In return for your disinterestedness, we kick you down, either upon Baveno or upon Stresa, or across the lake, if you prefer it.—The man is harmless. He is hired by a particular worshipper of the signorina’s voice, who affects to have first discovered it when she was in England, and is a connoisseur, a millionaire, a Greek, a rich scoundrel, with one indubitable passion, for which I praise him. We will let his paid eavesdropper depart, I think. He is harmless.”

      Neither Ugo nor Marco was disposed to allow any description of spy to escape unscotched. Vittoria saw that Luigi’s looks were against him, and whispered: “Why do you show such cunning eyes, Luigi?”

      He replied: “Signorina, take me out of their hearing, and I will tell you everything.”

      She walked aside. He seemed immediately to be inspired with confidence, and stretched his fingers in the form of a grasshopper, at which sight they cried: “He knows Barto Rizzo—this rascal!” They plied him with signs and countersigns, and speedily let him go. There ensued a sharp snapping of altercation between Luigi and Beppo. Vittoria had

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