Too sudden and sweet a death by far for such a traitor!  The Cornish king should have known how to torture his betrayer!  I knew—­and I meditated deeply on every point of my design, as I sat alone for an hour after Ferrari had left me.  I had many things to do—­I had resolved on making myself a personage of importance in Naples, and I wrote several letters and sent out visiting-cards to certain well-established families of distinction as necessary preliminaries to the result I had in view.  That day, too, I engaged a valet—­a silent and discreet Tuscan named Vincenzo Flamma.  He was an admirably trained servant—­he never asked questions—­was too dignified to gossip, and rendered me instant and implicit obedience—­in fact he was a gentleman in his way, with far better manners than many who lay claim to that title.  He entered upon his duties at once, and never did I know him to neglect the most trifling thing that could add to my satisfaction or comfort.  In making arrangements with him, and in attending to various little matters of business, the hours slipped rapidly away, and in the afternoon, at the time appointed, I made my way to Ferrari’s studio.  I knew it of old—­I had no need to consult the card he had left with me on which the address was written.  It was a queer, quaintly built little place, situated at the top of an ascending road—­its windows commanded an extensive view of the bay and the surrounding scenery.  Many and many a happy hour had I passed there before my marriage reading some favorite book or watching Ferrari as he painted his crude landscapes and figures, most of which I good-naturedly purchased as soon as completed.  The little porch over-grown with star-jasmine looked strangely and sorrowfully familiar to my eyes, and my heart experienced a sickening pang of regret for the past, as I pulled the bell and heard the little tinkling sound to which I was so well accustomed.  Ferrari himself opened the door to me with eager rapidity—­he looked excited and radiant.

“Come in, come in!” he cried with effusive cordiality.  “You will find everything in confusion, but pray excuse it.  It is some time since I had any visitors.  Mind the steps, conte!—­the place is rather dark just here—­every one stumbles at this particular corner.”

So talking, and laughing as he talked, he escorted me up the short narrow flight of stairs to the light airy room where he usually worked.  Glancing round it, I saw at once the evidences of neglect and disorder—­he had certainly not been there for many days, though he had made an attempt to arrange it tastefully for my reception.  On the table stood a large vase of flowers grouped with artistic elegance—­I felt instinctively that my wife had put them there.  I noticed that Ferrari had begun nothing new—­all the finished and unfinished studies I saw I recognized directly.  I seated myself in an easy-chair and looked at my betrayer with a calmly critical eye.  He was what the English would call “got up for