This was said, nevertheless, with a look of happiness which proved how much the inward man was consoled by what it had received, and a richness of expression about the handsome mouth, that denoted a sort of consciousness that it had been the channel of a most agreeable communication to the stomach.  Sooth to say, Benedetta had brought up a flask at a paul, or at about four cents a bottle; a flask of the very quality which she had put before the vice-governatore; and this was a liquor that flowed so smoothly over the palate, and of a quality so really delicate, that Ithuel was by no means aware of the potency of the guest which he had admitted to his interior.

All this time the vice-governatore was making up his mind concerning the nation and character of the stranger.  That he should mistake Bolt for an Englishman was natural enough, and the fact had an influence in again unsettling his opinion as to the real flag under which the lugger sailed, Like most Italians of that day, he regarded all the families of the northern hordes as a species of barbarians—­an opinion that the air and deportment of Ithuel had no direct agency in changing; for, while this singular being was not brawlingly rude and vulgar, like the coarser set of his own countrymen, with whom he had occasionally been brought in contact, he was so manifestly uncivilized in many material points, as to put his claim to gentility much beyond a cavil, and that in a negative way.

“You are a Genoese?” said Andrea to Filippo, speaking with the authority of one who had a right to question.

“Signore, I am, at your eccellenza’s orders, though in foreign service at this present moment.”

“In what service, friend?  I am in authority, here in Elba, and ask no more than is my duty.”

“Eccellenza, I can well believe this,” answered Filippo, rising and making a respectful salutation, and one, too, that was without any of the awkwardness of the same act in a more northern man, “as it is to be seen in your appearance.  I am now in the service of the king of England.”

Filippo said this steadily, though his eyes dropped to the floor under the searching scrutiny they endured.  The answer of the vice-governatore was delivered coolly, though it was much to the point.

“You are happy,” he said, “in getting so honorable masters; more especially as your own country has again fallen into the hands of the French.  Every Italian heart must yearn for a government that has its existence and its motives on this side of the Alps.”

“Signore, we are a republic to-day, and ever have been, you know.”

“Aye—­such as it is.  But your companion speaks no Italian—­he is an Inglese?”

“No, Signore—­an Americano; a sort of an Inglese, and yet no Inglese, after all.  He loves England very little, if I can judge by his discourse.”