He was a dark, beetle-browed-looking ruffian, this holy man; and the colonel, when he had finished examining his book of prayer and crime, tossed it to me, saying,—­“There! that will show your friends in England the kind of politicians we make war against.  Ha! what have we here?  This is more serious.”  And he unfolded a piece of paper which had been concealed in the breast of the priest.  “This contains a little valuable information,” he added, with a grim smile.  “Nobody like priests and women for carrying about political secrets, so you may have made a valuable capture,” and he turned to where I stood with Valeria; “let her be carefully searched.”

Now the colonel was a very pompous man, and the document he had just discovered on the priest added to his sense of self-importance.  When, therefore, a large, carefully folded paper was produced from the neighbourhood of Valeria’s lovely bosom, his eyes sparkled with anticipation.  “Ho, ho!” he exclaimed, as he clutched it eagerly, “the plot is thickening!” and he spread out triumphantly, before he had himself seen what it was, the exquisitely drawn portrait of a donkey.  There was a suppressed titter, which exploded into a shout when the bystanders looked into the colonel’s indignant face.  I only was affected differently, as my gaze fell upon this touching evidence of dear Valeria’s love for me, and I glanced at her tenderly.  “This has a deeper significance than you think for,” said the colonel, looking round angrily.  “Croppo’s wife does not carefully secrete a drawing like that on her person for nothing.  See, it is done by no common artist.  It means something, and must be preserved.”

“It may have a Biblical reference to the state of Italy.  You remember Issachar was likened to an ass between two burdens.  In that case it probably emanated from Rome,” I remarked; but nobody seemed to see the point of the allusion, and the observation fell flat.

That night I dined with the colonel, and after dinner I persuaded him to let me visit Valeria in prison, as I wished to take the portrait of the wife of the celebrated brigand chief.  I thanked my stars that my friend who had seen her when we met in the glen, was away on duty with his detachment, and could not testify to our former acquaintance.  My meeting with Valeria on this occasion was too touching and full of tender passages to be of any general interest.  Valeria told me that she was still a bride; that she had only been married a few months, and that she had been compelled to become Croppo’s wife against her choice, as the brigand’s will was too powerful to be resisted; but that, though he was jealous and attached to her, he was stern and cruel, and so far from winning her love since her marriage, he had rather estranged it by his fits of passion and ferocity.  As may be imagined, the portrait, which was really very successful, took some time in execution, the more especially as we had to discuss the possibilities of Valeria’s escape.