shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, displaying thin brown muscular arms, expressive of energy, and he wore a battered brown hat which might once have been of the so-called “Homburg” shape, but which now resembled nothing ever seen in the way of ordinary head-gear.  He was busily engaged in sketching a view of the lake and the opposite mountains, evidently to the order of some fashionably dressed women who stood near him watching the rapid and sure movements of his brush—­he had his box of water-colours beside him, and smiled and talked as he worked.  Lord Blythe watched him with lively interest, while enjoying the first whiffs of his lately lit cigar.

“A clever chap, evidently!” he thought.  “These Italians are all artists and poets at heart.  When those women have finished with him I’ll get him to do a sketch for me to send to Innocent—­just to show her the loveliness of the place.  She’ll be delighted! and it may tempt her to come here.”

He waited a few minutes longer, till he saw the artist hand over the completed drawing to his lady patrons, one of whom paid him with a handful of silver coin.  Something in the bearing and attitude of the man as he rose from the step where he had been seated and lifted his shapeless brown hat to his customers in courteous acknowledgment of their favours as they left him, struck Blythe with an odd sense of familiarity.

“I must have seen him somewhere before,” he thought.  “In Venice, perhaps—­or Florence—­these fellows are like gipsies, they wander about everywhere.”

He sauntered out of the Hotel into the garden and from the garden down to the landing-place, where he slowly approached the artist, who was standing with his back towards him, slipping his lately earned francs into his trouser pocket.  Several sample drawings were set up in view beside him,—­lovely little studies of lake and mountain which would have done honour to many a Royal Academician, and Blythe paused, looking at these with wonder and admiration before speaking, unaware that the artist had taken a backward glance at him of swift and more or less startled recognition.

“You are an admirable painter, my friend!” he said, at last—­ speaking in Italian of which he was a master.  “Your drawings are worth much more than you are asking for them.  Will you do one specially for me?”

“I’ve done a good many for you in my time, Blythe!” was the half-laughing answer, given in perfect English.  “But I don’t mind doing another.”

And he turned round, pushing his cap off his brows, and showing a wonderfully handsome face, worn with years and privation, but fine and noble-featured and full of the unquenchable light which is given by an indomitable and enduring spirit.

Lord Blythe staggered back and caught at the handrail of the landing steps to save himself from falling.

“My God!” he gasped.  “You!  You, of all men in the world!  You!—­ you, Pierce Armitage!”