Having finished dressing, I unlocked the door of the stuffy little cabin and called the old rag-picker.  He came shuffling along with his head bent, but raising his eyes as he approached me, he threw up his hands in astonishment, exclaiming,

“Santissima Madonna!  But you are a fine man—­a fine man!  Eh, eh!  Holy Joseph!  What height and breadth!  A pity—­a pity you are old; you must have been strong when you were young!”

Half in joke, and half to humor him in his fancy for mere muscular force, I rolled up the sleeve of my jacket to the shoulder, saying, lightly,

“Oh, as for being strong!  There is plenty of strength in me still, you see.”

He stared; laid his yellow fingers on my bared arm with a kind of ghoul-like interest and wonder, and felt the muscles of it with childish, almost maudlin admiration.

“Beautiful, beautiful!” he mumbled.  “Like iron—­just think of it!  Yes, yes.  You could kill anything easily.  Ah!  I used to be like that once.  I was clever at sword-play.  I could, with well-tempered steel, cut asunder a seven-times-folded piece of silk at one blow without fraying out a thread.  Yes, as neatly as one cuts butter!  You could do that too if you liked.  It all lies in the arm—­the brave arm that kills at a single stroke.”

And he gazed at me intently with his small blear eyes as though anxious to know more of my character and temperament.  I turned abruptly from him, and called his attention to my own discarded garments.

“See,” I said, carelessly; “you can have these, though they are not of much value.  And, stay, here are another three francs for some socks and shoes, which I dare say you can find to suit me.”

He clasped his hands ecstatically, and poured out a torrent of thanks and praises for this additional and unexpected sum, and protesting by all the saints that he and the entire contents of his shop were at the service of so generous a stranger, he at once produced the articles I asked for.  I put them on—­and then stood up thoroughly equipped and ready to make my way back to my own home when I chose.  But I had resolved on one thing.  Seeing that I was so greatly changed, I determined not to go to the Villa Romani by daylight, lest I should startle my wife too suddenly.  Women are delicate; my unexpected appearance might give her a nervous shock which perhaps would have serious results.  I would wait till the sun had set, and then go up to the house by a back way I knew of, and try to get speech with one of the servants.  I might even meet my friend Guido Ferrari, and he would break the joyful news of my return from death to Nina by degrees, and also prepare her for my altered looks.  While these thoughts flitted rapidly through my brain, the old ragpicker stood near me with his head on one side like a meditative raven, and regarded me intently.

“Are you going far?” he asked at last, with a kind of timidity.