“Nagen—­Nagen,” Carlo repeated; “the man’s unknown to me.”

“It’s sufficient that he is an Austrian officer.”

“Quite.  She hates me, and she has reason, for she’s aware that I mean to fight her lover, and choose my time.  The blood of my friends is on that man’s head.”

“I will finish what I have to say,” pursued Merthyr.  “When Beppo had related as much as he could make out from his sweetheart’s translation, I went straight to the duchess.  She is an Austrian, and a good and reasonable woman.  She informed me that a letter addressed by Countess Anna to Countess d’Isorella fell into her hands this night.  She burnt it unopened.  I leave it to you to consider whether you have been betrayed and who has betrayed you.  The secret was bought.  Beppo himself caught the words, ‘from a mercenary Italian.’  The duchess tells me that Countess Anna is in the habit of alluding to Countess d’Isorella in those terms.”

Carlo stretched his arms like a man who cannot hide the yawning fit.

“I promised my wife five minutes, though we have had the worst of the parting over.  Perhaps you will wait for me; I may have a word to say.”

He was absent for little more than the space named.  When he returned, he was careful to hide his face.  He locked the door, and leading Merthyr to an inner room, laid his watch on the table, and said:  “Now, friend, you will see that I have nothing to shrink from, for I am going to do execution upon myself, and before him whom I would, above all other men, have think well of me.  My wife supposes that I am pledged to this Brescian business because I am insanely patriotic.  If I might join Luciano tomorrow I would shout like a boy.  I would be content to serve as the lowest in the ranks, if I might be with you all under the Chief.  Rome crowns him, and Brescia is my bloody ditch, and it is deserved!  When I was a little younger—­I am a boy still, no doubt—­I had the honour to be distinguished by a handsome woman; and when I grew a little older, I discovered by chance that she had wit.  The lady is the Countess Violetta d’Isorella.  It is a grief to me to know that she is sordid:  it hurts my vanity the more.  Perhaps:  you begin to perceive that vanity governs me.  The signora Laura has not expressed her opinion on this subject with any reserve, but to Violetta belongs the merit of having seen it without waiting for the signs.  First—­it is a small matter, but you are English—­let me assure you that my wife has had no rival.  I have taunted her with jealousy when I knew that it was neither in her nature to feel it, nor in mine to give reason for it.  No man who has a spark of his Maker in him could be unfaithful to such a woman.  When Lombardy was crushed, we were in the dust.  I fancy we none of us knew how miserably we had fallen—­we, as men.  The purest—­I dare say, the bravest—­marched to Rome.  God bless my Luciano there!  But I, sir, I, my friend, I, Merthyr, I said proudly that I would not abandon a