“We shall not have occasion to use your gallant offer, Signor Smees,” said Andrea kindly, as he was about to retire into the house with one or two of his counsellors; “but we thank you none the less.  It is a happiness to be honored with the visit of two cruisers of your great nation on the same day, and I hope you will so far favor me as to accompany your brother commander, when he shall do me the honor to pay the customary visit, since it would seem to be his serious intention to pay Porto Ferrajo the compliment of a call.  Can you not guess at the name of the frigate?”

“Now I see she is a countryman, I think I can, Signore,” answered Raoul carelessly; “I take her to be la Proserpine, a French-built ship, a circumstance that first deceived me as to her character.”

“And the noble cavaliere, her commander—­you doubtless know his name and rank?”

“Oh! perfectly; he is the son of an old admiral, under whom I was educated, though we happen ourselves never to have met.  Sir Brown is the name and title of the gentleman.”

“Ah! that is a truly English rank, and name, too, as one might say.  Often have I met that honorable appellation in Shakespeare, and other of your eminent authors, Miltoni has a Sir Brown, if I am not mistaken, Signore?”

“Several of them, Signor Vice-governatore,” answered Raoul, without a moment’s hesitation or the smallest remorse; though he had no idea whatever who Milton was; “Milton, Shakespeare, Cicero, and all our great writers, often mention Signori of this family.”

“Cicero!” repeated Andrea, in astonishment—­“he was a Roman, and an ancient, Capitano, and died before Inghilterra was known to the civilized world.”

Raoul perceived that he had reached too far, though he was not in absolute danger of losing his balance.  Smiling, as in consideration of the other’s provincial view of things, he rejoined, with an aplomb that would have done credit to a politician, in an explanatory and half-apologetic tone.

“Quite true, Signor Vice-governatore, as respects him you mention,” he said; “but not true as respects Sir Cicero, my illustrious compatriot.  Let me see—­I do not think it is yet a century since our Cicero died.  He was born in Devonshire”—­this was the county in which Raoul had been imprisoned—­“and must have died in Dublin.  Si—­now I remember, it was in Dublin, that this virtuous and distinguished author yielded up his breath.”

To all this Andrea had nothing to say, for, half a century since, so great was the ignorance of civilized nations as related to such things, that one might have engrafted a Homer on the literature of England, in particular, without much risk of having the imposition detected.  Signor Barrofaldi was not pleased to find that the barbarians were seizing on the Italian names, it is true; but he was fain to set the circumstance down to those very traces of barbarism which were the unavoidable fruits of their origin.  As for supposing