“It would be sufficient that in such a house as this I thought I might find some employment for a painter.”

“You are a painter?” says I.

“A poor one, as you see,” replies Dario, with a significant glance at his clothes.

Don Sanchez turned to me, hunching his shoulders.

“’Tis clear,” says he, “that Signor Dario has been grossly abused by our lady’s over-zealous steward.  You have but to tell us, sir, what reparation we can make you.”

“I’ll not refuse it,” answers Dario, eagerly.  “You shall grant me permission to prove the honesty of my story—­and something more than that.  Somewhere here,” adds he, glancing around him, “I’d leave a tribute to the grace of that dear lady who brought me back to life.”

Don Sanchez assents with a bow to this proposal, but with a rueful glance at the rich panels of the wall, as fearing this painter might be as poor in talent as in his clothes—­the latter reflecting discredit on the former—­and would disfigure the handsome walls with some rude daub.

“Ah!” cries Dario, casting his eye upon the ceiling, which was plastered in the Italian mode and embellished with a poor design of cherubs and clouds, “this ceiling is ill done.  I could paint a fresco that would less disgrace the room.”

“You will need materials,” says the Don, laying his purse upon the table.  “When you return with them, you may rely upon having our lady’s consent to your wishes.”

The painter took the purse with a bow of acknowledgment, and no more hesitation than one gentleman would show in receiving an obligation from another, and presently left us.

“Shall we see him again, think ye, Senor?” I asked when we were left to ourselves.

He nodded, but with such a reflective, sombre air, that I was impelled to ask him if he lacked confidence in the story told us by the painter.

“His story may be true enough, but whether Signor Dario be an honest man or not is another matter.  A painter’s but a man.  A ruined gentleman will accommodate his principles to circumstances” (with a side glance that seemed to say, “I am a ruined gentleman")—­“and my mind would be easier if I knew by what curious accident a painter in need should find himself in the heart of Kent, and why fixing on this house to seek employment he should linger to the point of starvation before he can pluck up courage to ask a simple question.  We must keep our eyes open, Mr. Hopkins, and,” adds he, dropping his voice, “our mouths shut.”

I could not sleep that night for thinking of house-breakings and bloody struggles for dear life; for ’tis a matter of common report that this sort of robbers, ere they make attack, do contrive to get one of their number into the house that he may learn where good goods are stowed, which part is easiest of attack, etc.  I know not whether these quakings were shared by the Don, but certainly our misgivings never