“’So you are tired of your life, young man!  All the more reason have you to live.  Anyone can die.  A murderer has moral force enough to jeer at his hangman.  It is very easy to draw the last breath.  It can be accomplished successfully by a child or a warrior.  One pang of far less anguish than the toothache, and all is over.  There is nothing heroic about it, I assure you!  It is as common as going to bed; it is almost prosy.  Life is heroism, if you like; but death is a mere cessation of business.  And to make a rapid and rude exit off the stage before the prompter gives the sign is always, to say the least of it, ungraceful.  Act the part out, no matter how bad the play.  What say you?’

“And, balancing the dagger lightly on one finger, as though it were a paper-knife, he smiled at me with so much frank kindliness that it was impossible to resist him.  I advanced and held out my hand.

“‘Whoever you are,’ I said, ’you speak like a true man.  But you are ignorant of the causes which compelled me to—–­’ and a hard sob choked my utterance.  My new acquaintance pressed my proffered hand cordially, but the gravity of his tone did not vary as he replied: 

“’There is no cause, my friend, which compels us to take violent leave of existence, unless it be madness or cowardice.’

“‘Aye, and what if it were madness?’ I asked him eagerly.  He scanned me attentively, and laying his fingers lightly on my wrist, felt my pulse.

“‘Pooh, my dear sir!’ he said; ’you are no more mad than I am.  You are a little overwrought and excited—­that I admit.  You have some mental worry that consumes you.  You shall tell me all about it.  I have no doubt I can cure you in a few days.’

“Cure me?  I looked at him in wonderment and doubt.

“‘Are you a physician?’ I asked.

“He laughed.  ’Not I!  I should be sorry to belong to the profession.  Yet I administer medicines and give advice in certain cases.  I am simply a remedial agent—­not a doctor.  But why do we stand here in this bleak place, which must be peopled by the ghosts of olden heroes?  Come with me, will you?  I am going to the Hotel Costanza, and we can talk there.  As for this pretty toy, permit me to return it to you.  You will not force it again to the unpleasant task of despatching its owner.’

“And he handed the dagger back to me with a slight bow.  I sheathed it at once, feeling somewhat like a chidden child, as I met the slightly satirical gleam of the clear blue eyes that watched me.

“‘Will you give me your name, signor?’ I asked, as we turned from the Campagna towards the city.

“’With pleasure.  I am called Heliobas.  A strange name?  Oh, not at all!  It is pure Chaldee.  My mother—­as lovely an Eastern houri as Murillo’s Madonna, and as devout as Santa Teresa—­gave me the Christian saint’s name of Casimir also, but Heliobas pur et simple suits me best, and by it I am generally known.’