eply engrossed with the cutting and Spreading of my
roll and butter.

"I see nothing particular about it," I said, indifferently. "That he
was rich is nothing--rich and poor must die alike."

"And that is true, very true," assented Pietro, with another groan,
"for not all his property could save the blessed Cipriano."

I started, but quickly controlled myself.

"What do you mean?" I asked, as carelessly as I could. "Are you talking
of some saint?"

"Well, if he were not canonized he deserves to be," replied the
landlord; "I speak of the holy Benedictine father who brought hither
the Count Romani in a dying condition. Ah I little he knew how soon the
good God would call him himself!"

I felt a sickening sensation at my heart.

"Is he dead?" I exclaimed.

"Dead as the martyrs!" answered Pietro. "He caught the plague, I
suppose, from the count, for he was bending over him to the last. Ay,
and he sprinkled holy water over the corpse, and laid his own crucifix
upon it in the coffin. Then up he went to the Villa Romani, taking with
him the count's trinkets, his watch, ring, and cigar-case--and nothing
would satisfy him but that he should deliver them himself to the young
contessa, telling her how her husband died."

My poor Nina!--I thought. "Was she much grieved?" I inquired, with a
vague curiosity.

"How do I know?" said the landlord, shrugging his bulky shoulders. "The
reverend father said nothing, save that she swooned away. But what of
that? Women swoon at everything--from a mouse to a corpse. As I said,
the good Cipriano attended the count's burial--and he had scarce
returned from it when he was seized with the illness. And this morning
he died at the monastery--may his soul rest in peace! I heard the news
only an hour ago. Ah! he was a holy man! He has promised me a warm
corner in Paradise, and I know he will keep his word as truly as St.
Peter himself."

I pushed away the rest of my meal untasted. The food choked me. I could
have shed tears for the noble, patient life thus self-sacrificed. One
hero the less in this world of unheroic, uninspired persons! I sat
silent, lost in sorrowful thought. The landlord looked at me curiously.

"The coffee does not please you?" he said at last. "You have no
appetite?" I forced a smile.

"Nay--your words would take the edge off the keenest appetite ever born
of the breath of the sea. Truly Naples affords but sorry entertainment
to a stranger; is there naught to hear