would be afraid to stay there, even half an hour, when the mountain quakes, the ashes fall in showers, and the glowing lava pours out in a stream.  The houses there are by no means so well built, and the window-panes are not so clean as in this country.  I almost fear that there are few glass windows in Resina, but the children don’t freeze, any more than they do here.  What would a Leyden house-keeper say to our village streets?  Poles with vines, boughs of fig-trees, and all sorts of under-clothing on the roofs, at the windows, and the crooked, sloping balconies; orange and lemon-trees with golden fruit grow in the little gardens, which have neither straight paths nor symmetrical beds.  Everything there grows together topsy-turvy.  The boys, who in rags that no tailor has darned or mended, clamber over the white vineyard walls, the little girls, whose mothers comb their hair before the doors of the houses, are not so pink and white, nor so nicely washed as the Holland children, but I should like to see again the brown-skinned, black-haired little ones with the dark eyes, and end my days amid all the clatter in the warm air, among my nephews, nieces and blood-relations.”

As he uttered these words, the old man’s features had flushed and his black eyes sparkled with a fire, that but a short time before the northern air and his long years of servitude seemed to have extinguished.  Since neither the priest nor the musician answered immediately, he continued more quietly: 

“Monseigneur Gloria is going to Italy now, and I can accompany him to Rome as courier.  From thence I can easily reach Naples, and live there on the interest of my savings free from care.  My future master will leave on the 15th, and on the 12th I must be in Antwerp, where I am to meet him.”

The eyes of the priest and the musician met.  Wilhelm lacked courage to seek to withhold the steward from carrying out his plan, but Damianus summoned up his resolution, laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder, and said: 

“If you wait here a few weeks more, Belotti, you will find the true rest, the peace of a good conscience.  The crown of life is promised to those, who are faithful, unto death.  When these sad days are over, it will be easy to smooth the way to your home.  We shall meet again towards noon, Belotti.  If my assistance is necessary, send for me; old Ambrosius knows where to find me.  May God’s blessing rest upon you, and if you will accept it from me, on you also, Meister Wilhelm.”

After the priest had left the house, Belotti said, sighing: 

“He’ll yet force me to yield to his will.  He abuses his power over souls.  I’m no saint, and what he asks of me—­”

“Is right,” said Wilhelm firmly.

“But you don’t know what it is to throw away, like a pair of worn-out shoes, the dearest hope of a long, sad life.  And for whom, I ask you, for whom?  Do you know my padrona?  Oh! sir, I have experienced in this house things, which your youth does not dream could be possible.  The young lady has wounded you.  Am I right or wrong?”