I affected to be deeply engrossed with the cutting and Spreading of my roll and butter.

“I see nothing particular about it,” I said, indifferently.  “That he was rich is nothing—­rich and poor must die alike.”

“And that is true, very true,” assented Pietro, with another groan, “for not all his property could save the blessed Cipriano.”

I started, but quickly controlled myself.

“What do you mean?” I asked, as carelessly as I could.  “Are you talking of some saint?”

“Well, if he were not canonized he deserves to be,” replied the landlord; “I speak of the holy Benedictine father who brought hither the Count Romani in a dying condition.  Ah I little he knew how soon the good God would call him himself!”

I felt a sickening sensation at my heart.

“Is he dead?” I exclaimed.

“Dead as the martyrs!” answered Pietro.  “He caught the plague, I suppose, from the count, for he was bending over him to the last.  Ay, and he sprinkled holy water over the corpse, and laid his own crucifix upon it in the coffin.  Then up he went to the Villa Romani, taking with him the count’s trinkets, his watch, ring, and cigar-case—­and nothing would satisfy him but that he should deliver them himself to the young contessa, telling her how her husband died.”

My poor Nina!—­I thought.  “Was she much grieved?” I inquired, with a vague curiosity.

“How do I know?” said the landlord, shrugging his bulky shoulders.  “The reverend father said nothing, save that she swooned away.  But what of that?  Women swoon at everything—­from a mouse to a corpse.  As I said, the good Cipriano attended the count’s burial—­and he had scarce returned from it when he was seized with the illness.  And this morning he died at the monastery—­may his soul rest in peace!  I heard the news only an hour ago.  Ah! he was a holy man!  He has promised me a warm corner in Paradise, and I know he will keep his word as truly as St. Peter himself.”

I pushed away the rest of my meal untasted.  The food choked me.  I could have shed tears for the noble, patient life thus self-sacrificed.  One hero the less in this world of unheroic, uninspired persons!  I sat silent, lost in sorrowful thought.  The landlord looked at me curiously.

“The coffee does not please you?” he said at last.  “You have no appetite?” I forced a smile.

“Nay—­your words would take the edge off the keenest appetite ever born of the breath of the sea.  Truly Naples affords but sorry entertainment to a stranger; is there naught to hear but stories of the dying and the dead?”

Pietro put on an air that was almost apologetic.

“Well, truly!” he answered, resignedly—­“very little else.  But what would you, amico?  It is the plague and the will of God.”