“Yes,” said Nino, pensively, “you are very proper.  And besides, you can be a witness of the civil marriage.”

“Diavolo!” I cried, “a marriage!  I had not thought of that.”

“Blood of a dog!” exclaimed Nino, “what on earth did you think of?” He was angry all in a moment.

“Piano,—­do not disquiet yourself, my boy.  I had not realised that the wedding was so near,—­that is all.  Of course you will be married in Rome, as soon as ever we get there.”

“We shall be married in Ceprano to-morrow night, by the sindaco, or the mayor, or whatever civil bishop they support in that God-forsaken Neopolitan town,” said Nino, with great determination.

“Oh, very well; manage it as you like.  Only be careful that it is properly done, and have it registered,” I added.  “Meanwhile, I will start.”

“You need not go yet, caro mio; it is not nine o’clock.”

“How far do you think I ought to go, Nino?” I inquired.  To tell the truth, the idea of going up the Serra alone was not so attractive in the evening as it had been in the morning light.  I thought it would be very dark among those trees, and I had still a great deal of money sewn between my waistcoats.

“Oh, you need not go so very far,” said Nino.  “Three or four miles from the town will be enough.  I will wait in the street below, after eleven.”

We sat in silence for some time afterwards, and if I was thinking of the gloomy ride before me, I am sure that Nino was thinking of Hedwig.  Poor fellow!  I dare say he was anxious enough to see her, after being away for two months, and spending so many hours almost within her reach.  He sat low in his chair, and the dismal rays of the solitary tallow candle cast deep shadows on his thoughtful face.  Weary, perhaps, with waiting and with long travel, yet not sad, but very hopeful he looked.  No fatigue could destroy the strong, manly expression of his features, and even in that squalid room, by the miserable light, dressed in his plain gray clothes, he was still the man of success, who could hold thousands in the suspense of listening to his slightest utterance.  Nino is a wonderful man, and I am convinced that there is more in him than music, which is well enough when one can be as great as he, but is not all the world holds.  I am sure that massive head of his was not hammered so square and broad by the great hands that forge the thunderbolts of nations, merely that he should be a tenor and an actor, and give pleasure to his fellow-men.  I see there the power and the strength of a broader mastery than that which bends the ears of a theatre audience.  One day we may see it.  It needs the fire of hot times to fuse the elements of greatness in the crucible of revolution.  There is not such another head in all Italy as Nino’s that I have ever seen, and I have seen the best in Rome.  He looked so grand, as he sat there, thinking over the future.  I am not praising his face for its beauty; there is little enough of that, as women might judge.  And besides, you will laugh at my ravings, and say that a singer is a singer, and nothing more, for all his life.  Well, we shall see in twenty years; you will,—­perhaps I shall not.