undoubtedly cast eyes again upon them. My first glimpses of Santa Chiara gave me this earnest of romance. It was walled and fortified, the streets were narrow pits of shade, old tenements with bent fronts swayed to meet each other. Melons lay drying on flat roofs, and yet now and then would come a high-pitched northern gable. Latin and Teuton met and mingled in the place, and, as Mr. Gibbon has taught us, the offspring of this admixture is something fantastic and unpredictable. I forgot my grievous thirst and my tired feet in admiration and a certain vague expectation of wonders. Here, ran my thought, it is fated, perchance, that Romance and I shall at last compass a meeting. Perchance some Princess is in need of my arm, or some affair of high policy is afoot in this jumble of old masonry. You will laugh at my folly, but I had an excuse for it. A fortnight in strange mountains disposes a man to look for something at his next encounter with his kind, and the sight of Santa Chiara would have fired the imagination of a Judge in Chancery.

I strode happily into the courtyard of the Tre Croci, and presently had my expectation confirmed. For I found my fellow, Giambattista, a faithful rogue I got in Rome on a cardinal's recommendation, hot in dispute with a lady's maid. The woman was old, harsh-featured, no Italian clearly, though she spoke fluently in the tongue. She rated my man like a pickpocket, and the dispute was

over a room.

The Signore will bear me out," said Giambattista. "Was not I sent to Verona with his baggage and thence to this place of ill manners? Was I not bidden engage for him a suite of apartments? Did I not duly engage these fronting on the gallery, and dispose therein the Signore's baggage? And lo! an hour ago I found it all turned into the yard and this woman installed in its place. It is monstrous, unbearable! Is this an inn for travelers or haply the private mansion of these Magnificences?"

"My servant speaks truly," I said, firmly yet with courtesy, having no mind to spoil adventure by urging rights. "He had orders to take these rooms for me, and I know not what higher power can countermand me."

The woman had been staring at me scornfully, for no doubt in my dusty habit I was a figure of small dignity. But at the sound of my voice she started, and cried out, "You are English, Signore?" I bowed an admission.

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Then my mistress shall speak with you," she said, and dived into the inn like an elderly rabbit.

Giambattista was for sending for the landlord and making a riot in that hostelry. But I stayed him, and, bidding him fetch me a flask of white wine, three lemons and a glass of eau de vie, I sat down peaceably at one of the little tables in the courtyard and prepared for the quenching of my thirst. Presently, as I sat drinking that excellent compound of my own invention, my shoulder was touched and I turned to find the maid and her mistress. Alas for my hopes of a glorious being, young and lissom and bright with the warm riches of the south! I saw a short, stout little lady, well on the wrong side of thirty. She had plump red cheeks, and fair hair dressed indifferently in the Roman fashion. Two candid blue eyes redeemed her plainness, and a certain grave and gentle dignity. She was notably a gentlewoman, so I got up, doffed my hat, and awaited her commands.

She spoke in Italian. "Your pardon, Signore, but I fear my good Christine has done you unwittingly a wrong."

Christine snorted at this premature plea of guilty, while I hastened to assure the fair apologist that any rooms I might have taken were freely at her service.

I spoke unconsciously in English and she replied in a halting parody of that tongue. "I understand him," she said, "but I do not speak him happily. I will discourse, if the Signore pleases, in our first speech."

She and her father, it appeared, had

come over the Brenner, and arrived that morning at the Tre Croci, where they purposed to lie for some days. He was an old man, very feeble, and much depending upon her constant care. Wherefore it was necessary that the rooms of all the party should adjoin, and there was no suite of the size in the inn save that which I had taken. Would I therefore consent to forego my right, and place her under an eternal debt?

I agreed most readily, being at all times careless where I sleep so the bed be clean, or where I eat so the meal be good. I bade my servant see the landlord and have my belongings carried to other rooms. Madame thanked me sweetly and would have gone, when a thought detained her.

"It is but courteous," she said, " that you should know the names of those whom you have befriended. My father is called the Count d'Albani, and I am his only daughter. We travel to Florence where we have a villa in the environs."

"My name," said I, "is HerveyTownshend, an Englishman traveling abroad for his entertainment."

"Hervey," she repeated. "Are you one of the family of Miladi Hervey ? '

"My worthy aunt," I replied, with a tender recollection of that preposterous

woman.

necessaries, and returned early in the afternoon with a noble appetite for din

ner.

The Tre Croci had been in happier days a bishop's lodging, and possessed a dining-hall ceiled with black oak and adorned with frescoes. It was used as a general salle-à-manger for all dwellers in the inn, and there accordingly I sat down to my long-deferred meal. At first there were no other diners, and I had two maids as well as Giambattista to attend on my wants. Presently Madame d'Albani entered, escorted by Christine, and by a tall gaunt serving-man who seemed no part of the hostelry. The landlord followed, bowing civilly, and the two women seated themselves at the little table at the further end. "Il Signor Conte dines in his room," said Madame to the host, who withdrew to see to that gentleman's needs.

I found my eyes straying often to the little party in the cool twilight of that refectory. The man-servant was so old and battered, and yet of such a dignity that he lent a touch of intrigue to the thing. He stood stiffly behind Madame's chair, handing dishes with an air of silent reverthe lackey of a great noble, if ever I had seen the type. Madame never glanced towards me, but conversed sparingly with Christine, while she pecked delicately at her food. Her name ran in my

ence

"My father, sir," she said, addressing me," is an old frail man, little used to the company of strangers. But in former days he has had kindness from members of your house, and it would be a satisfaction to him, I think, to have the privilege of your acquaintance."

She spoke with the air of a Vizier who promises a traveler a sight of the Grand Turk. I murmured my gratitude and hastened after Giambattista. In an hour I had bathed, rid myself of my beard, and arrayed myself in decent clothing. Then I strolled out to inspect the little city, admired an altar-piece, chaffered with a Jew for a cameo, purchased some small

miliar. Albani! D'Albani! It was a name not uncommon in the Roman states, but I had never heard it linked to a noble family. And yet I had, somehow, somewhere; and in the vain effort at recollection I had almost forgotten my hunger. There was nothing bourgeois in the little lady. The austere servants, the high manner of condescension, spake of a stock used to deference, though, maybe, pitifully decayed in its fortunes. There was a mystery in these quiet folk, which tickled my curiosity. Romance after all was not destined to fail me at Santa Chiara.

My doings of the afternoon were of interest to myself alone. Suffice it to say that when I returned at nightfall I found

Giambattista the trustee of a letter. It was from Madame, written in a fine thin hand on a delicate paper, and it invited me to wait upon the Signore, her father, that evening at eight o'clock. What caught my eye was a coronet stamped in a corner. A coronet, I say, but in truth it was a crown, the same as surmounts the Arms Royal of England on the signboard of a Court tradesman. I marveled at the ways of foreign heraldry. Either this family of d'Albani had higher pretensions than I had given it credit for, or it employed an unlearned and imaginative stationer. I scribbled a line of acceptance and went to dress.

man.

The hour of eight found me knocking at the Count's door. The grim servingman admitted me to the pleasant chamber which should have been mine own. A dozen wax candles burned in sconces, and on the table, among fruits and the relics of supper, stood a handsome candelabrum of silver. A small fire of logs had been lit on the hearth, and before it in an arm-chair sat a strange figure of a He seemed not so much old as aged. I should have put him at sixty, but the marks he bore were clearly less those of Time than of Life. There sprawled before me the relics of noble looks. The fleshy nose, the pendulous cheek, the drooping mouth, had once been cast in lines of manly beauty. Heavy eyebrows above and heavy bags beneath spoiled the effect of a choleric blue eye, which age had not dimmed. The man was gross and yet haggard; it was not the padding of good living which clothed his bones, but a heaviness as of some dropsical malady. I could picture him in health a gaunt loose-limbed being, high-featured and swift and eager. He was dressed wholly in black velvet, with fresh ruffles and wristbands, and he wore heeled shoes with antique silver buckles. It was a figure of an older age which rose slowly to greet me, in one hand a snuff-box and a purple handkerchief, and in the other a book with finger marking place. He made me a great bow as Madame uttered

my name, and held out a hand with a kindly smile.

"Mr. Hervey-Townshend," he said, "we will speak English if you please. I am fain to hear it again, for 't is a tongue I love. I make you welcome, sir, for your own sake and for the sake of your kin. How is her honorable ladyship, your aunt? A week ago she sent me a letter.”

I answered that she did famously, and wondered what cause of correspondence my worthy aunt could have with wandering nobles of Italy.

He motioned me to a chair between Madame and himself, while a servant set a candle on a shelf behind him. Then he proceeded to catechize me in excellent English, with now and then a phrase of French, as to my doings in my own land. Admirably informed this Italian gentleman proved himself. I defy you to find in Almach's more intelligent gossip. He inquired as to the chance of my Lord North and the mind of my Lord Rockingham. He had my Lord Shelburne's foibles at his fingers' ends. The habits of the Prince, the aims of their ladyships of Dorset and Buckingham, the extravagance of this noble Duke and that right honorable gentleman, were not hid from him. I answered discreetly yet frankly, for there was no ill-breeding in his curiosity. Rather it seemed like the inquiries of some fine lady, now buried deep in the country, as to the doings of a forsaken Mayfair. There was humor in it and something of pathos.

"My aunt must be a voluminous correspondent, sir," I said.

He laughed. "I have many friends in England who write to me, but I have seen none of them for long and I doubt I may never see them again. Also in my youth I have been in England." And he sighed as at a sorrowful recollection.

He admired Mr. Fielding profoundly, Dr. Smollett less so, Mr. Richardson not at all. But he was clear that England had a monopoly of good writers, saving only my friend M. Rousseau, whom he valued, yet with reservations. Of the Italians he had no opinion. I instanced against him the plays of Signor Alfieri. He groaned, shook his head, and grew moody.

"Know you Scotland ?" he asked suddenly.

I replied that I had visited Scotch cousins but had no great estimation of the country. "It is too poor and jagged," I said, “for the taste of one who loves color and sunshine and suave outlines."

He sighed. "It is indeed a bleak land, but a kindly. When the sun shines at all he shines on the truest hearts in the world. I love its bleakness too. There is a spirit in the misty hills and the harsh sea-wind which inspires men to great deeds. Poverty and courage go often together, and my Scots, if they are poor, are as untamable as their mountains."

"You know the land, sir?" I asked. "I have seen it and I have known many Scots. You will find them in Paris and Avignon and Rome, with never a plack in their pockets. I have a feeling for exiles, sir, and I have pitied these poor people. They gave their all for the cause they followed."

Clearly the Count shared my aunt's views of history, those views which have made such sport for us often at Carteron. Stalwart Whig as I am, there was someLaing in the tone of the old gentleman which made me feel a certain majesty in the lost cause.

“I am Whig in blood and Whig in principle," I said, "but I have never denied that those Scots who followed the Chevalier were too good to waste on so trumpery a leader." I had no sooner spoken the words than I felt that somehow I had been guilty of a bêtise.

"It may be so," said the Count. "I did not ask you here, sir, to argue on politics, on which I am assured we should differ. But I will ask you one question.

May be. But take note that the King of England is suffering to-day as - how do call him? you - the Chevalier suffered forty years ago. The wheel has come full circle,' as your Shakespeare says. Time has wrought his revenge."

He was staring into a fire which burned small and smokily.

"You think the day for kings is ended. I read it differently. The world will ever have need of kings. If a nation cast out one it will have to find another. And mark you, those later kings, created by the people, will bear a harsher hand than the old race who ruled as of right. Some day the world will regret having destroyed the kindly and legitimate line of monarchs and put in their place tyrants who govern by the sword or by flattering an idle mob."

This belated dogma would at other times have set me laughing, but the strange figure before me gave no impulse to merriment. I glanced at Madame and saw her face grave and perplexed, and I thought I read a warning gleam in her eye. There was a mystery about the party which irritated me, but good breeding forbade me to seek a clue.

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You will permit me to retire, sir,” I said. "I have but this morning come down from a long march among the mountains east of this valley. Sleeping in wayside huts and tramping those sultry paths make a man think pleasantly of bed."

The Count seemed to brighten at my words. "You are a marcher, sir, and love the mountains? Once I would gladly have joined you, for in my youth I was a great walker in hilly places. Tell me, now, how

many miles will you cover in a day?" I told him thirty at a stretch.

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Ah," he said, "I have done fifty, without food, over the roughest and mossiest mountains. I lived on what I shot, and for drink I had spring water. Nay, I am forgetting. There was another beverage, which I assume you have never tasted. Heard you ever, sir, of that eau de vie which the Scots call usquebaugh? It will comfort a traveler as no thin Italian wine will comfort him. By my soul, you shall taste it. Charlotte, my dear, bid Oliphant fetch glasses and hot water and lemons. I will give Mr. HerveyTownshend a sample of the brew. You English are all têtes-de-fer, sir, and are worthy of it."

The old man's face had lighted up, and for the moment his air had the jollity of youth. I would have accepted the entertainment had I not again caught Madame's eye. It said, unmistakably and with serious pleading, "Decline." I, therefore, made my excuses, urged fatigue, drowsiness, and a delicate stomach, bade my host good night, and in deep mystification left the room.

Enlightenment came upon me as the door closed. There on the threshold stood the man-servant whom they called Oliphant, erect as a sentry on guard. The sight reminded me of what I had once seen at Basle when by chance a Rhenish Grand Duke had shared the inn with me. Of a sudden a dozen clues linked together the crowned note-paper, Scotland, my Aunt Hervey's politics, the tale of old wanderings.

sound. It was as if all the cats on all the roofs of Santa Chiara were sharpening their claws and wailing their battle-cries. Presently out of the noise came a kind of music very slow, solemn, and melancholy. The notes ran up in great flights of ecstasy and sunk anon to the tragic deeps. In spite of my sleepiness I was held spell-bound, and the musician had concluded with certain barbaric grunts before I had the curiosity to rise. It came from somewhere in the gallery of the inn, and as I stuck my head out of my door I had a glimpse of Oliphant, night-cap on head and a great bagpipe below his arm, stalking down the corridor.

The incident, for all the gravity of the music, seemed to give a touch of farce to my interview of the past evening. I had gone to bed with my mind full of sad stories of the deaths of kings. Magnificence in tatters had always affected my pity more deeply than tatters with no such antecedent; and a monarch out at elbows stood for me as the last irony of our mortal life. Here was a king whose misfortunes could find no parallel. He had been in his youth the hero of a high adventure, and his middle age had been spent in fleeing among the courts of Europe, and waiting, a pensioner, on the whims of his foolish but regnant brethren. I had heard tales of a growing sottishness, a decline in spirit, a squalid taste in pleasures. Small blame, I had always thought, to so illfated a princeling. And now I had chanced upon the gentleman in his dotage, traveling with a barren effort at mystery, attended by a sad-faced daughter and two ancient domestics. It was a lesson in the vanity of human wishes which the shallowest moralist would have noted. Nay, I felt more than the moral. Something human and kindly in the old fellow had caught my fancy. The decadence was too tragic to prose about, the decadent too human to moralize on. I had left the chamber of the shall I say de jure King of England?-a sentimental adherent of the cause. But this business of the bagpipes touched the comic. To