And assuming an attitude expressive of mystery, he dropped his voice, looked round the table, and proceeded:—­

“It was on the last evening of the Carnival.  It had been raining at intervals during the day, but held up for a good hour just at dusk, as if on purpose for the moccoli.  Scarcely, however, had the guns of St. Angelo thundered an end to the frolic, when the rain came down again in torrents, and put out the last tapers that yet lingered along the Corso.  Wet, weary, and splashed from head to foot with mud and tallow, I came home about seven o’clock, having to dine and dress before going to a masked-ball in the evening.  To light my stove, change my wet clothes, and make the best of a half-cold trattore dinner, were my first proceedings; after which, I laid out my costume ready to put on, wrapped myself in a huge cloak, swallowed a tumbler full of hot cognac and water, and lay down in front of the fire, determined to have a sound nap and a thorough warming, before venturing out again that night.  I fell asleep, of course, and never woke till roused by a tremendous peal upon the studio-bell, about two hours and a half afterwards.  More dead than alive, I started to my feet.  The fire had gone out in the stove; the room was in utter darkness; and the bell still pealed loud enough to raise the neighborhood.

“‘Who’s there?’ I said, half-opening the door, through which the wind and rain came rushing.  ’And what, in the name of ten thousand devils, do you want?”

“‘I want an artist,’ said my visitor, in Italian.  ‘Are you one?’

“‘I flatter myself that I am,’ replied I, still holding the door tolerably close.

“‘Can you paint heads?’

“‘Heads, figures, landscapes—­anything,’ said I, with my teeth chattering like castanets.

“The stranger pushed the door open, walked in without further ceremony, closed it behind him, and said, in a low, distinct voice:—­

“‘Could you take the portrait of a dead man?’

“‘Of a dead man?’ I stammered.  ‘I—­I ...  Suppose I strike a light?’

“The stranger laid his hand upon my arm.

“‘Not till you have given me an answer,’ said he.  ’Yes or no?  Remember, you will be paid well for your work.’

“‘Well, then—­yes,’ I replied.

“‘And can you do it at once?’

“‘At once?’

“’Ay, Signore, will you bring your colors, and come with me this instant—­or must I seek some other painter?’

“I thought of the masked-ball, and sighed; but the promise of good payment, and, above all, the peculiarity of the adventure determined me.

“‘Nay, if it is to be done,’ said I, ’one time is as good as another.  Let me strike a light, and I will at once pack up my colors and come with you.’

“‘Bene!’ said the stranger.  ’But be as quick as you can, Signore, for time presses.’