“Is he safe?”

“He is in Lugano.”

“The signorina Vittoria?”

“In Turin.”

“Where am I?”

The reply came from another mouth than Rinaldo’s.

“You are in the poor lodging of the shoemaker, whose shoes, if you had thought fit to wear them, would have conducted you anywhere but to this place.”

“Who are you?” Wilfrid moaned.

“You ask who I am.  I am the Eye of Italy.  I am the Cat who sees in the dark.”  Barto Rizzo raised the lamp and stood at his feet.  “Look straight.  You know me, I think.”

Wilfrid sighed, “Yes, I know you; do your worst.”

His head throbbed with the hearing of a heavy laugh, as if a hammer had knocked it.  What ensued he knew not; he was left to his rest.  He lay there many days and nights, that were marked by no change of light; the lamp burned unwearyingly.  Rinaldo and a woman tended him.  The sign of his reviving strength was shown by a complaint he launched at the earthy smell of the place.

“It is like death,” said Rinaldo, coming to his side.  “I am used to it, and familiar with death too,” he added in a musical undertone.

“Are you also a prisoner here?” Wilfrid questioned him.

“I am.”

“The brute does not kill, then?”

“No; he saves.  I owe my life to him.  He has rescued yours.”

“Mine?” said Wilfrid.

“You would have been torn to pieces in the streets but for Barto Rizzo.”

The streets were the world above to Wilfrid; he was eager to hear of the doings in them.  Rinaldo told him that the tobacco-war raged still; the soldiery had recently received orders to smoke abroad, and street battles were hourly occurring.  “They call this government!” he interjected.

He was a soft-voiced youth; slim and tall and dark, like Angelo, but with a more studious forehead.  The book he was constantly reading was a book of chemistry.  He entertained Wilfrid with very strange talk.  He spoke of the stars and of a destiny.  He cited certain minor events of his life to show the ground of his present belief in there being a written destiny for each individual man.  “Angelo and I know it well.  It was revealed to us when we were boys.  It has been certified to us up to this moment.  Mark what I tell you,” he pursued in a devout sincerity of manner that baffled remonstrance, “my days end with this new year.  His end with the year following.  Our house is dead.”

Wilfrid pressed his hand.  “Have you not been too long underground?”

“That is the conviction I am coming to.  But when I go out to breathe the air of heaven, I go to my fate.  Should I hesitate?  We Italians of this period are children of thunder and live the life of a flash.  The worms may creep on:  the men must die.  Out of us springs a better world.  Romara, Ammiani, Mercadesco, Montesini, Rufo, Cardi, whether they see it or not, will sweep forward to it.  To some of them, one additional day of breath is precious.  Not so for Angelo and me.  We are unbeloved.  We have neither mother nor sister, nor betrothed.  What is an existence that can fly to no human arms?  I have been too long underground, because, while I continue to hide, I am as a drawn sword between two lovers.”