And as she turned into this narrow and squalid little alley, it seemed as if her eyes, through some excitement or other, observed the objects around her with a strange intensity.  She could remember each and every one of them afterward—­the fruit-sellers bawling, and the sellers of acidulated drinks out-roaring them; the shoemakers already at work at their open stalls; mules laden with vegetables; a negro monk, with his black woolly head above the brown hood; a venerable letter-writer at a small table, spectacles on nose and pen in hand, with two women whispering to him what he was to write for them.  She made her way up the steep lane, through the busy, motley, malodorous crowd, until she reached the corner pointed out to her by Calabressa.

But he had not told her which way to turn, and for a second or two she stood in the middle of the crossing, uncertain and bewildered.  A brawny-looking fellow, apparently a butcher, addressed her; she murmured some thanks, and hastily turned away, taking to the right.  She had not gone but a few yards when she saw the entrance to a court which, at least, was certainly as dark as that described by Calabressa.  She was half afraid that the man who had spoken to her was following her; and so, without further hesitation, she plunged into this gloomy court-yard, which was apparently quite deserted.

She was alone, and she looked around.  A second convinced her that she had hit upon the place, as it were by accident.  Over her head swung an oil-lamp, that threw but the scantiest orange light into the vague shadows of the place; and in front of her were the open windows of what was apparently a wine-shop.  She did not stay to reflect.  Perhaps with some little tightening of the mouth—­unknown to herself—­she walked forward and entered the vaults.

Here, again, no one was visible; there were rows of tuns, certainly, and a musty odor in the place, but no sign of any trade or business being carried on.  Suddenly out of the darkness appeared a figure—­so suddenly indeed as to startle her.  Had this man been seen in ordinary daylight, he would no doubt have looked nothing worse than a familiar type of the fat black-a-vised Italian—­not a very comely person, it is true, but not in any way horrible—­but now these dusky shadows lent something ghoulish-looking to his bushy head and greasy face and sparkling black eyes.

“What is the pleasure of the young lady?” he said, curtly.

Natalie had been startled.

“I wished to inquire—­I wished to mention,” she stammered, “one Bartolotti.”

But at the same time she was conscious of a strange sinking of the heart.  Was this the sort of creature who was expected to save the life of her lover?—­this the sort of man to pit against Ferdinand Lind?  Poor old Calabressa—­she thought he meant well, but he boasted, he was foolish.

This heavy-faced and heavy-bodied man in the dusk did not reply at once.  He turned aside, saying,