“‘None of your jests,’ said I, mildly.  ‘Ho, ho!’ said he; ’I can’t be mistaken; help there!’ and he griped me by the collar.  I replied, as you may suppose, by laying him in the kennel; but it would not do.  The French captain had a French lieutenant at his back, whose memory was as good as his chief’s.  A crowd assembled; other sailors came up:  the odds were against me.  I slept that night in prison; and in a few weeks afterwards I was sent to the galleys.  They spared my life, because the old Frenchman politely averred that I had made my crew spare his.  You may believe that the oar and the chain were not to my taste.  I and two others escaped; they took to the road, and have, no doubt, been long since broken on the wheel.  I, soft soul, would not commit another crime to gain my bread, for Clara was still at my heart with her sweet eyes; so, limiting my rogueries to the theft of a beggar’s rags, which I compensated by leaving him my galley attire instead, I begged my way to the town where I left Clara.  It was a clear winter’s day when I approached the outskirts of the town.  I had no fear of detection, for my beard and hair were as good as a mask.  Oh, Mother of Mercy! there came across my way a funeral procession!  There, now you know it; I can tell you no more.  She had died, perhaps of love, more likely of shame.  Can you guess how I spent that night?—­I stole a pickaxe from a mason’s shed, and all alone and unseen, under the frosty heavens, I dug the fresh mould from the grave; I lifted the coffin, I wrenched the lid, I saw her again—­again!  Decay had not touched her.  She was always pale in life!  I could have sworn she lived!  It was a blessed thing to see her once more, and all alone too!  But then, at dawn, to give her back to the earth,—­to close the lid, to throw down the mould, to hear the pebbles rattle on the coffin:  that was dreadful!  Signor, I never knew before, and I don’t wish to think now, how valuable a thing human life is.  At sunrise I was again a wanderer; but now that Clara was gone, my scruples vanished, and again I was at war with my betters.  I contrived at last, at O—­, to get taken on board a vessel bound to Leghorn, working out my passage.  From Leghorn I went to Rome, and stationed myself at the door of the cardinal’s palace.  Out he came, his gilded coach at the gate.

“‘Ho, father!’ said I; ‘don’t you know me?’

“‘Who are you?’

“‘Your son,’ said I, in a whisper.

“The cardinal drew back, looked at me earnestly, and mused a moment.  ‘All men are my sons,’ quoth he then, very mildly; ’there is gold for thee!  To him who begs once, alms are due; to him who begs twice, jails are open.  Take the hint and molest me no more.  Heaven bless thee!’ With that he got into his coach, and drove off to the Vatican.  His purse which he had left behind was well supplied.  I was grateful and contented, and took my way to Terracina.  I had not long passed the marshes when I saw two horsemen approach at a canter.