He rose, placed his hand on the arm of the chair as if about to take his seat in it; suddenly he sprang aside, exclaiming:  “Fool that you are, you were about to do a fine thing!  I would have been caught by my own trap; and if the signor had forgotten to come this evening, I would have remained clasped in that traitorous chair.  But don’t I hear some one coming?  A key grating in the lock of the garden gate?  Yes, it is the Signor Turchi.”

Seating himself on the ground before the arm-chair, with his back turned to the door, Julio began to work with apparent eagerness; and in order to assume a greater air of indifference, he sang snatches of a well-known song.

The door opened, and Signor Turchi stood upon the threshold.  He remained for an instant motionless, contemplating in silence his servant, who continued his song as though unconscious of the presence of his master.

Simon slowly approached him and laid his hand upon his shoulder; but before he could say a word, Julio drew his dagger from its scabbard, and springing to his feet, made a motion as if to stab his master.

“O cielo, e voi signor? Is it you, signor?” cried Julio.  “You slip through the garden like a thief.  It is almost dark; an accident might have happened.”

“Stop your foolish jesting, Julio.  A man does not kill another without finding out with whom he is dealing.”

“Do you think so, signor?  Why, if five or six men were to take me by surprise, not one would be left alive.”

“You speak as if the life of a man were of no more value than that of a bird.”

“Less, signor; it is not worth a farthing.”

“We will have proof of this,” said Simon, in a peculiar tone, as he turned towards the door.  “For years I have heard you boasting; this evening I will discover what you are—­a brave man or a coward.”

Julio drew himself to his full height, put his arms akimbo, and was about to speak, but his master prevented him.

“No useless words!” said Simon, imperiously, “Light the lamp, and come to my bed-room.”

He left the room without making any inquiry in regard to the chair, and ascended a winding staircase.  Opening the door of a large room, he threw himself upon a chair, and rubbed his brow with his hands like a man tormented by painful thoughts.

After awhile his hands fell upon his knees, and his eyes wandering in feverish agitation through the dim twilight, he muttered: 

“At last it is decided! the murder of a friend!  He my friend?  He is my mortal enemy!  Has he not deprived me of Mary’s love?  Has he not destroyed all my hopes?  Has he not devoted me to eternal infamy?  His uncle has consented; he will become his partner, the proprietor of an immense fortune, the husband of Mary—­of Mary, who was destined by her father to be my wife!  He will be powerful, rich, and happy; he will be surrounded by every luxury; he will astonish the world by the