“I am afraid it is no joke at all,” Lind said, gloomily.  “Those Swiss people are craven.  What can you expect from a nation of hotel-waiters?  They cringe before every bully in Europe; you will find that, if Bismarck insists, the Federal Council will expel Armfeldt from Switzerland directly.  No; the only safe refuge nowadays for the reformers, the Protestants the pioneers of Europe, is England; and the English do not know it; they do not think of it.  They are so accustomed to freedom that they believe that is the only possible condition, and that other nations must necessarily enjoy it.  When you talk to them of tyranny, of political persecution, they laugh.  They cannot understand such a thing existing.  They fancy it ceased when Bomba’s dungeons were opened.”

“For my part,” said Calabressa, lighting a cigarette, and calling for a small glass of cognac, “I am content with Naples.”

“And the protection of pickpockets?”

“My friend,” said the other, coolly, “if you refer to the most honorable the association of the Camorristi, I would advise you not to speak too loud.”

Calabressa rose, having settled his score with the waiter.

“Allons!” said he.  “What are you going to do to day?”

“I don’t know,” said Lind, discontentedly.  “May the devil fly away with this town of Venice!  I never come here but it is either freezing or suffocating.”

“You are in an evil humor to-day, friend Lind; you have caught the English spleen.  Come, I have a little business to do over at Murano; the breeze will do you good.  And I will tell you the story of my escape.”

The time had to be passed somehow.  Lind walked with his companion along to the steps, descended, and jumped into a gondola, and presently they were shooting out into the turbulent green water that the wind drove against the side of the boat in a succession of sharp shocks.  Seated in the little funereal compartment, they could talk without much fear of being heard by either of the men; and Calabressa began his tale.  It was not romantic.  It was simply a case of bribery; the money to effect which had certainly not come out of Calabressa’s shallow pockets.  In the midst of the story—­or, at least, before the end of it—­Lind said, in a low voice,

“Calabressa, have you any sure grounds for what you said about Zaccatelli?”

His companion glanced quickly outside.

“It is you are now indiscreet,” he said, in an equally low voice.  “But yes; I think that is the business.  However,” he added, in a gayer tone, “what matter?  To-day is not to-morrow; to-morrow will shift for itself.”  And therewith he continued his story, though his listener seemed singularly preoccupied and thoughtful.

They arrived at the island, got out, and walked into the court-yard of one of the smaller glass-works.  There were one or two of the workmen passing; and here something occurred that seemed to arrest Lind’s attention.