The individual addressed as Signor Conte became evidently excited, and prepared himself to be the first to present himself at the door of the coach as it drew up opposite the inn.  The ostler stepped out into the street with his stable lanthorn.  Signora Marta, shivering, with a huge shawl over her head, took up her position, lanthorn in hand, behind the Signor Conte, and the ramshackle old coach, rattling over the uneven round cobble-stones of the execrable pavement with a crash of noise that seemed to threaten that every jolt would be its last, came to a standstill at the inn door.

The Signor Conte Leandro Lombardoni—­that was the name of the young man hitherto called Il Signor Conte—­opened the door with his own hand, and, putting his head eagerly into the interior, cried,

“Are you there, Signor Ercole?  Well!  What news?  Have you succeeded?  Let me give you a hand.”

“Grazie, Signor Leandro, grazie,” replied a high-pitched voice of singularly shrill quality from within the vehicle, “I don’t know whether I can move.  Misericordia! che viaggio!  What a journey I have had.  I am nearly dead.  My blood is frozen in my veins.  I have no use of my limbs.  I shall never recover it; never!”

And then very slowly a huge bundle of cloaks and rags and furs, nearly circular in form and about five feet in diameter, began to move towards the door of the carriage, and gradually, by the help of Signor Leandro and Signora Marta, to struggle through it and get itself down on the pavement.

“And this I do and suffer for thee, Ravenna!” said the bundle in the same shrill tenor, making an attempt, as it spoke, to raise two little projecting fins towards the cold, unsympathising stars.

“But have you succeeded, Signor Ercole?” asked the other again, anxiously.

“I have succeeded in sacrificing myself for my country,” replied the shrill voice with chattering teeth; “for I know I shall never get over it.  I am frozen.  It is a very painful form of martyrdom.”

“But you can at least say one word, Signor Ercole?  You can say yes or no to the question, whether you have succeeded in our object?” urged the Conte Leandro.

Signor Ercole Stadione, however, who was, as the reader is aware, no less important a personage than the impresario of the principal theatre of Ravenna, knew too well all the importance that belonged to the news he had to tell to part with his secret so easily.  “Signor Conte,” he quavered out, “I tell you I am frozen!  A man cannot speak on any subject in such a condition.  I know nothing.  My intellectual faculties have not their ordinary lucidity.  I must endeavour to reach my home.  Marta, hold the lamp here.”

“And I who have waited here for your arrival ever since the venti-quattro!  Per Dio!  Do you think I ain’t cold too?  And the Marchese is expecting you.  Of course, you will go to him at once?”

“I don’t know that I shall ever recover myself sufficiently to do so.  It is useless for the city to expect more from a man than he can accomplish.  When I have got thawed, I will endeavour to do my duty.  Good night, Signor Conte!” said the little impresario, preparing to follow his servant with the lanthorn, as well as the enormous quantity of wraps around him would allow him to do so.