“Si, signor!” and the poor fellow sighed again, and reddened with his own inward confusion.  “You will pardon me, eccellenza, for my freedom of speech?  I feel I have done wrong—­”

“I pardon you for what in this world is never pardoned—­excess of love,” I answered, gently.  “Knowing you love me, I ask you to obey me in my present wishes, and thus we shall always be friends.”

His face brightened at these last words, and his thoughts turned in. a new direction.  He glanced at the iron box I had before pointed out to him.

“That is to go to Avellino, eccellenza?” he asked, with more alacrity than he had yet shown.

“Yes,” I answered.  “You will place it in the hands of the good Signora Monti, for whom I have a great respect.  She will take care of it till—­I return.”

“Your commands shall be obeyed, signor,” he said, rapidly, as though eager to atone for his past hesitation.  “After all,” and he smiled, “it will be pleasant to see Lilla; she will be interested, too, to hear the account of the eccellenza’s marriage.”

And somewhat consoled by the prospect of the entertainment his unlooked-for visit would give to the charming little maiden of his choice, he left me, and shortly afterward I heard him humming a popular love-song softly under his breath, while he busied himself in packing my portmanteau for the honeymoon trip—­a portmanteau destined never to be used or opened by its owner.

That night, contrary to my usual habit, I lingered long over my dinner; at its close I poured out a full glass of fine Lacrima Cristi, and secretly mixing with it a dose of a tasteless but powerful opiate, I called my valet and bade him drink it and wish me joy.  He did so readily, draining the contents to the last drop.  It was a tempestuous night; there was a high wind, broken through by heavy sweeping gusts of rain.  Vincenzo cleared the dinner-table, yawning visibly as he did so, then taking my out-door paletot on his arm, he went to his bedroom, a small one adjoining mine, for the purpose of brushing it, according to his customary method.  I opened a book, and pretending to be absorbed in its contents, I waited patiently for about half an hour.

At the expiration of that time I stole softly to his door and looked in.  It was as I had expected; overcome by the sudden and heavy action of the opiate, he had thrown himself on his bed, and was slumbering profoundly, the unbrushed overcoat by his side.  Poor fellow!  I smiled as I watched him; the faithful dog was chained, and could not follow my steps for that night at least.

I left him thus, and wrapping myself in a thick Almaviva that muffled me almost to the eyes, I hurried out, fortunately meeting no one on my way—­out into the storm and darkness, toward the Campo Santo, the abode of the all-wise though speechless dead.  I had work to do there—­work that must be done.  I knew that if I had not taken the precaution of drugging my too devoted servitor, he might, despite his protestations, have been tempted to track me whither I went.  As it was, I felt myself safe, for four hours must pass, I knew, before Vincenzo could awake from his lethargy.  And I was absent for some time.