coarse ears appeared to point themselves forward like those of an animal, following the direction of his sight.  In outward appearance he presented a strange mixture of dilapidation, keenness, and brutality.  A week had changed him very much.  A few days ago most people would have looked at him with a sort of careless compassion.  Now, there was about him something distinctly repulsive.  Beside Faustina’s youth and delicacy, and freshness, he hardly seemed like a human being.

“I suppose it is a very wonderful thing,” said the young girl at last, “but I do not know enough to understand its value.  Do my brothers ever come to the library?” She leaned back from the volume and glanced at Meschini’s face, wondering how heaven could have made anything so ugly.

“No.  They never come,” replied the librarian, drawing the book towards him instinctively, as he would have done if his visitor had been a stranger, who might try to steal a page or two unless he were watched.

“But my poor father was very fond of the books, was he not?  Did he not often come to see you here?”

She was thinking so little of Meschini that she did not see that he turned suddenly white and shook like a man in an ague.  It was what he had feared all along, ever since she had entered the room.  She suspected him and had come, or had perhaps been sent by San Giacinto to draw him into conversation and to catch him in something which could be interpreted to be a confession of his crime.  Had that been her intention, his behaviour would have left little doubt in her mind as to the truth of the accusation.  His face betrayed him, his uncontrollable fear, his frightened eyes and trembling limbs.  But she had only glanced at him, and her sight wandered to the bookcases for a moment.  When she looked again he was moving away from her, along the table.  She was surprised to see that his step was uncertain, and that he reeled against the heavy piece of furniture and grasped it for support.  She started a little but did not rise.

“Are you ill?” she asked.  “Shall I call some one?”

He made no answer, but seemed to recover himself at the sound of her voice, for he shuffled away and disappeared behind the high carved desk on which lay the open catalogue.  She thought she saw a flash of light reflected from some smooth surface, and immediately afterwards she heard a gurgling sound, which she did not understand.  Meschini was fortifying himself with a draught.  Then he reappeared, walking more steadily.  He had received a severe shock, but, as usual, he had not the courage to run away, conceiving that flight would inevitably be regarded as a proof of guilt.

“I am not well,” he said in explanation as he returned.  “I am obliged to take medicine continually.  I beg your Excellency to forgive me.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” answered Faustina kindly.  “Can we do nothing for you?  Have you all you need?”

“Everything, thank you.  I shall soon be well.”