“There are philosophers who pretend, good Vito, that nothing that we see around us actually has an existence:  that we fancy everything; fancy that this is a sea, called the Mediterranean; fancy this is a ship—­yonder is the land; fancy that we live; and even fancy death.”

“Corpo di Bacco!  Signor Andrea,” exclaimed the other, stopping short at the foot of the ladder, and seizing his companion by a button, afraid he would desert him in the midst of a strange delusion, “you would not trifle in such a matter with an old friend; one who has known you from childhood? Fancy that I am alive!”

“Si—­I have told you only the truth.  The imagination is very strong, and may easily give the semblance of reality to unreal things.”

“And that I am not a podesta, in fact, but one only in fancy!”

“Just so, friend Vito; and that I am only a vice-governatore, too, in the imagination.”

“And that Elba is not a real island, or Porto Ferrajo a real town; and that even all our iron, of which we seem to send so much about the world, in good, wholesome ships, is only a sort of ghost of solid, substantial metal!”

“St, si—­that everything which appears to be material is, in fact, imaginary; iron, gold, or flesh.”

“And then I am not Vito Viti, but an impostor?  What a rascally philosophy is this!  Why, both of us are as bad as this Sir Smees, if what you say be true, vice-governatore—­or make-believe vice-governatore.”

“Not an impostor, friend Vito; for there is no real being of thy name, if thou art not he.”

“Diavolo!  A pretty theory this, which would teach the young people of Elba that there is no actual podesta in the island, but only a poor, miserable, sham one; no Vito Viti on earth.  If they get to think this, God help the place, as to order and sobriety.”

“I do not think, neighbor, that you fully understand the matter, which may be owing to a want of clearness on my part; but, as we are now on our way to visit an unfortunate prisoner, we may as well postpone the discussion to another time.  There are many leisure moments on board a ship, to the language of which one is a stranger, that might be usefully and agreeably relieved by going into the subject more at large.”

“Your pardon, Signor Andrea; but there is no time like the present.  Then, if the theory be true, there is no prisoner at all—­or, at the most, an imaginary one—­and it can do Sir Smees no harm to wait; while, on the other hand, I shall not have a moment’s peace until I learn whether there is such a man as Vito Viti or not, and whether I am he.”

“Brother Vito, thou art impatient; these things are not learned in a moment; moreover, every system has a beginning and an end, like a book; and who would ever become learned, that should attempt to read a treatise backward?”

“I know what is due to you, Signor Andrea, both on ac count of your higher rank, and on account of your greater wisdom, and will say no more at present; though to keep from thinking on a philosophy that teaches I am not a podesta, or you a vice-governatore, is more than flesh and blood can bear.”