“Save your own skin from the Holy Office, master,” answered Temistocle, dragging him along as fast as he could.  “I will go back and tell your lady, never fear.  She will leave Rome to-morrow.  Of course you will go to Naples.  She will follow you.  She will be there before you.”

Del Ferice mumbled an unintelligible answer.  His teeth were chattering with cold and fear; but as he began to realise his extreme peril, terror lent wings to his heels, and he almost outstripped the nimble Temistoele in the race for safety.  They reached at last the ruined part of the city near the Porta Maggiore, and in the shadow of the deep archway where the road branches to the right towards Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Temistocle halted.

“Here,” he said, shortly.  Del Ferice said never a word, but began to undress himself in the dark.  It was a gloomy and lowering night, the roads were muddy, and from time to time a few drops of cold rain fell silently, portending a coming storm.  In a few moments the transformation was complete, and Del Ferice stood by his servant’s side in the shabby brown cowl and rope-girdle of a Capuchin monk.

“Now comes the hard part,” said Temistocle, producing a razor and a pair of scissors from the bottom of the bag.  Del Ferice had too often contemplated the possibility of flight to have omitted so important a detail.

“You cannot see—­you will cut my throat,” he murmured plaintively.

But the fellow was equal to the emergency.  Retiring deeper into the recess of the arch, he lit a cigar, and holding it between his teeth, puffed violently at it, producing a feeble light by which he could just see his master’s face.  He was in the habit of shaving him, and had no difficulty in removing the fair moustache from his upper lip.  Then, making him hold his head down, and puffing harder than ever, he cropped his thin hair, and managed to make a tolerably respectable tonsure.  But the whole operation had consumed half an hour at the least, and Del Ferice was trembling still.  Temistocle thrust the clothes into his bag.

“My watch!” objected the unfortunate man, “and my pearl studs—­give them to me—­what?  You villain! you thief! you—­”

“No chiacchiere, no talk, padrone,” interrupted Temistocle, snapping the lock of the bag.  “If you chance to be searched, it would ill become a mendicant friar to be carrying gold watches and pearl studs.  I will give them to Donna Tullia this very evening.  You have money—­you can say that you are taking that to your convent.”

“Swear to give the watch to Donna Tullia,” said Del Ferice.  Whereupon Temistocle swore a terrible oath, which he did not fail to break, of course.  But his master had to be satisfied, and when all was completed the two parted company.

“I will ask Donna Tullia to take me to Naples on her passport,” said the Neapolitan.

“Take care of my things, Temistoele.  Burn all the papers if you can—­though I suppose the sbirri have got them by this time.  Bring my clothes—­if you steal anything, remember there are knives in Rome, and I know where to write to have them used.”  Whereat Temistocle broke into a torrent of protestations.  How could his master think that, after saving him at such risk, his faithful servant would plunder him?