“Well,” said Del Ferice, thoughtfully, “you are a great scoundrel, you know.  But you have saved me, as you say.  There is a scudo for you.”

Temistocle never refused anything.  He took the coin, kissed his master’s hand as a final exhibition of servility, and turned back towards the city without another word.  Del Ferice shuddered, and drew his heavy cowl over his head as he began to walk quickly towards the Porta Maggiore.  Then he took the inside road, skirting the walls through the mud to the Porta San Lorenzo.  He was perfectly safe in his disguise.  He had dined abundantly, he had money in his pocket, and he had escaped the clutches of the Holy Office.  A barefooted friar might walk for days unchallenged through the Roman Campagna and the neighbouring hills, and it was not far to the south-eastern frontier.  He did not know the way beyond Tivoli, but he could inquire without exciting the least suspicion.  There are few disguises more complete than the garb of a Capuchin monk, and Del Ferice had long contemplated playing the part, for it was one which eminently suited him.  His face, much thinner now than formerly, was yet naturally round, and without his moustache would certainly pass for a harmless clerical visage.  He had received an excellent education, and knew vastly more Latin than the majority of mendicant monks.  As a good Roman he was well acquainted with every convent in the city, and knew the names of all the chief dignitaries of the Capuchin order.  When a lad he had frequently served at Mass, and was acquainted with most of the ordinary details of monastic life.  The worst that could happen to him might be to be called upon in the course of his travels to hear the dying confession of some poor wretch who had been stabbed after a game of mora.  His case was altogether not so bad as might seem, considering the far greater evils he had escaped.

At the Porta San Lorenzo the gates were closed as usual, but the dozing watchman let Del Ferice out of the small door without remark.  Any one might leave the city, though it required a pass to gain admittance during the night.  The heavily-ironed oak clanged behind the fugitive, and he breathed more freely as he stepped upon the road to Tivoli.  In an hour he had crossed the Ponte Mammolo, shuddering as he looked down through the deep gloom at the white foam of the Teverone, swollen with the winter rains.  But the fear of the Holy Office was behind him, and he hurried on his lonely way, walking painfully in the sandals he had been obliged to put on to complete his disguise, sinking occasionally ankle-deep in mud, and then trudging over a long stretch of broken stones where the road had been mended; but not noticing nor caring for pain and fatigue, while he felt that every minute took him nearer to the frontier hills where he would be safe from pursuit.  And so he toiled on, till he smelled the fetid air of the sulphur springs full fourteen miles from Rome; and at last, as the