so unwelcome
a visitor.

Stephano lingered a moment opposite the house until he heard the door
bolted and chained behind him; then crossing the street, he rejoined his
follower, Lomellino.

"All right, captain?" said the latter, inquiringly.

"All right!" answered Stephano. "Poor Isaachar is inconsolable, no
doubt; but the countess will be consoled at his expense. Thus it is with
the world, Lomellino; what is one person's misery is another's
happiness."

"Dost grow sentimental, good captain?" exclaimed the man, whose ears
were entirely unaccustomed to such language on the part of his chief.

"Lomellino, my friend," answered Verrina, "when a man is smitten in a
certain organ, commonly called the heart, he is apt to give utterance to
that absurdity which the world denominates sentiment. Such is my case."

"You are, then, in love, captain?" said Lomellino, as they retraced
their way through the suburb of Alla Croce.

"Just so," replied the bandit chief. "I will tell you how it happened.
Yesterday morning, when those impertinent sbirri gave me a harder run
than I have ever yet experienced, I was fain to take refuge in the
garden of that very same Signor Wagner----"

"Who was yesterday arrested for murder?" interrupted Lomellino.

"The identical one," returned Stephano. "I concealed myself so well that
I knew I might bid defiance to those bungling sbirri--although their
scent was sharpened by the hope of the reward set on my head by the
prince. While I thus lay hidden, I beheld a scene that would have done
good to the heart of even such a callous fellow as yourself--I mean
callous to female qualifications. In a word, I saw one woman stab
another as effectually as----"

"But it was Wagner who killed the woman!" ejaculated Lomellino.

"No such thing," said Stephano quietly. "The murderess is of the gentle
sex--though she can scarcely be gentle in disposition. And such a
splendid creature, Lomellino! I beheld her countenance for a few
minutes, as she drew aside her veil that her eyes might glare upon her
victim; and I whispered to myself, 'That woman must be mine; she is
worthy of me!' Then the blow descended--her victim lay motionless at her
feet--and I never took my eyes off the countenance of the murderess.
'She is an incarnate fiend,' I thought, 'and admirably fitted to mate
with the bandit captain.' Such was my reflection then; and the lapse of
a few hours has only served to strengthen the impression. You may