that things had gone on as we trust them to do at the closing of our eyelids:  he had preserved a mystical remote faith in the steady running of the world above, and hugged it as his most precious treasure.  A thunder was rolled in his ears when he heard of the flight of two months at one bound.  Two big months!  He would have guessed, at farthest, two weeks.  “I have been two months in one shirt?  Impossible!” he exclaimed.  His serious idea (he cherished it for the support of his reason) was, that the world above had played a mad prank since he had been shuffled off its stage.

“It can’t be March,” he said.  “Is there sunlight overhead?”

“It is a true Milanese March,” Rinaldo replied.

“Why am I kept a prisoner?”

“I cannot say.  There must be some idea of making use of you.”

“Have you arms?”

“I have none.”

“You know where they’re to be had.”

“I know, but I would not take them if I could.  They, my friend, are for a better cause.”

“A thousand curses on your country!” cried Wilfrid.  “Give me air; give me freedom, I am stifled; I am eaten up with dirt; I am half dead.  Are we never to have the lamp again?”

“Hear me speak,” Rinaldo stopped his ravings.  “I will tell you what my position is.  A second attempt has been made to help Count Ammiani’s escape; it has failed.  He is detained a prisoner by the Government under the pretence that he is implicated in the slaying of an Austrian noble by the hands of two brothers, one of whom slew him justly—­not as a dog is slain, but according to every honourable stipulation of the code.  I was the witness of the deed.  It is for me that my cousin, Count Ammiani, droops in prison when he should be with his bride.  Let me speak on, I pray you.  I have said that I stand between two lovers.  I can release him, I know well, by giving myself up to the Government.  Unless I do so instantly, he will be removed from Milan to one of their fortresses in the interior, and there he may cry to the walls and iron-bars for his trial.  They are aware that he is dear to Milan, and these two miserable attempts have furnished them with their excuse.  Barto Rizzo bids me wait.  I have waited:  I can wait no longer.  The lamp is withheld from me to stop my writing to my brother, that I may warn him of my design, but the letter is written; the messenger is on his way to Lugano.  I do not state my intentions before I have taken measures to accomplish them.  I am as much Barto Rizzo’s prisoner now as you are.”

The plague of darkness and thirst for daylight prevented Wilfrid from having any other sentiment than gladness that a companion equally unfortunate with himself was here, and equally desirous to go forth.  When Barto’s wife brought their meal, and the lamp to light them eating it, Rinaldo handed her pen, ink, pencil, paper, all the material of correspondence; upon which, as one who had received a stipulated exchange,