of the time when I had heard it last!  For then I had possessed a heart—­a throbbing, passionate, sensitive thing—­alive to every emotion of tenderness and affection—­now that heart was dead and cold as a stone.  Only its corpse went with me everywhere, weighing me down with itself to the strange grave it occupied, a grave wherein were also buried so many dear delusions—­such plaintive regrets, such pleading memories, that surely it was no wonder their small ghosts arose and haunted me, saying, “Wilt thou not weep for this lost sweetness?” “Wilt thou not relent before such a remembrance?” or “Hast thou no desire for that past delight?” But to all such inward temptations my soul was deaf and inexorable; justice—­stern, immutable justice was what I sought and what I meant to have.

May be you find it hard to understand the possibility of Scheming and carrying out so prolonged a vengeance as mine?  If you that read these pages are English, I know it will seem to you well-nigh incomprehensible.  The temperate blood of the northerner, combined with his open, unsuspicious nature, has, I admit, the advantage over us in matters of personal injury.  An Englishman, so I hear, is incapable of nourishing a long and deadly resentment, even against an unfaithful wife—­he is too indifferent, he thinks it not worth his while.  But we Neapolitans, we can carry a “vendetta” through a life-time—­ay, through generation after generation!  This is bad, you say—­immoral, unchristian.  No doubt!  We are more than half pagans at heart; we are as our country and our traditions have made us.  It will need another visitation of Christ before we shall learn how to forgive those that despitefully use us.  Such a doctrine seems to us a mere play upon words—­a weak maxim only fit for children and priests.  Besides, did Christ himself forgive Judas?  The gospel does not say so!

When I reached my own apartments at the hotel I felt worn out and fagged.  I resolved to rest and receive no visitors that day.  While giving my orders to Vincenzo a thought occurred to me.  I went to a cabinet in the room and unlocked a secret drawer.  In it lay a strong leather case.  I lifted this, and bade Vincenzo unstrap and open it.  He did so, nor showed the least sign of surprise when a pair of richly ornamented pistols was displayed to his view.

“Good weapons?” I remarked, in a casual manner.

My vallet took each one out of the case, and examined them both critically.

“They need cleaning, eccellenza.”

“Good!” I said, briefly.  “Then clean them and put them in good order.  I may require to use them.”

The imperturbable Vincenzo bowed, and taking the weapons, prepared to leave the room.

“Stay!”

He turned.  I looked at him steadily.

“I believe you are a faithful fellow, Vincenzo,” I said.

He met my glance frankly.

“The day may come,” I went on, quietly, “when I shall perhaps put your fidelity to the proof.”