and spoke out his own name with brown-faced laughter in the bustling street.  Luigi was so impressed by his cunning and his recklessness that he at once told him more than he wished to tell:—­The Austrian officer was with his sister, and had written to the signorina, and Luigi had delivered the letter; but the signorina was at the maestro’s, Rocco Ricci’s, and there was no answer:  the officer was leaving for Verona in the morning.  After telling so much, Luigi drew back, feeling that he had given Barto his full measure and owed to the signorina what remained.

Barto probably read nothing of the mind of his spy, but understood that it was a moment for distrust of him.  Vittoria and her mother lodged at the house of one Zotti, a confectioner, dwelling between the Duomo and La Scala.  Luigi, at Barto’s bidding, left word with Zotti that he would call for the signorina’s answer to a certain letter about sunrise.  “I promised my Rosellina, my poppyheaded sipper, a red-wine evening, or I would hold this fellow under my eye till the light comes,” thought Barto misgivingly, and let him go.  Luigi slouched about the English lady’s hotel.  At nightfall her brother came forth.  Luigi directed him to be in the square of the Duomo by sunrise, and slipped from his hold; the officer ran after him some distance.  “She can’t say I was false to her now,” said Luigi, dancing with nervous ecstasy.  At sunrise Barto Rizzo was standing under the shadow of the Duomo.  Luigi passed him and went to Zotti’s house, where the letter was placed in his hand, and the door shut in his face.  Barto rushed to him, but Luigi, with a vixenish countenance, standing like a humped cat, hissed, “Would you destroy my reputation and have it seen that I deliver up letters, under the noses of the writers, to the wrong persons?—­ha! pestilence!” He ran, Barto following him.  They were crossed by the officer on horseback, who challenged Luigi to give up the letter, which was very plainly being thrust from his hand into his breast.  The officer found it no difficult matter to catch him and pluck the letter from him; he opened it, reading it on the jog of the saddle as he cantered off.  Luigi turned in a terror of expostulation to ward Barto’s wrath.  Barto looked at him hard, while he noted the matter down on the tablet of an ivory book.  All he said was, “I have that letter!” stamping the assertion with an oath.  Half-an-hour later Luigi saw Barto in the saddle, tight-legged about a rusty beast, evidently bound for the South-eastern gate, his brows set like a black wind.  “Blessings on his going!” thought Luigi, and sang one of his street-songs:—­

“O lemons, lemons, what a taste you leave in the mouth!  I desire you, I love you, but when I suck you, I’m all caught up in a bundle and turn to water, like a wry-faced fountain.  Why not be satisfied by a sniff at the blossoms?  There’s gratification.  Why did you grow up from the precious little sweet chuck that you were, Marietta?  Lemons, O lemons! such a thing as a decent appetite is not known after sucking at you.”