n I had possessed a heart--a throbbing,
passionate, sensitive thing--alive to every emotion of tenderness and
affection--now that heart was dead and cold as a stone. Only its corpse
went with me everywhere, weighing me down with itself to the strange
grave it occupied, a grave wherein were also buried so many dear
delusions--such plaintive regrets, such pleading memories, that surely
it was no wonder their small ghosts arose and haunted me, saying, "Wilt
thou not weep for this lost sweetness?" "Wilt thou not relent before
such a remembrance?" or "Hast thou no desire for that past delight?"
But to all such inward temptations my soul was deaf and inexorable;
justice--stern, immutable justice was what I sought and what I meant to
have.

May be you find it hard to understand the possibility of Scheming and
carrying out so prolonged a vengeance as mine? If you that read these
pages are English, I know it will seem to you well-nigh
incomprehensible. The temperate blood of the northerner, combined with
his open, unsuspicious nature, has, I admit, the advantage over us in
matters of personal injury. An Englishman, so I hear, is incapable of
nourishing a long and deadly resentment, even against an unfaithful
wife--he is too indifferent, he thinks it not worth his while. But we
Neapolitans, we can carry a "vendetta" through a life-time--ay, through
generation after generation! This is bad, you say--immoral,
unchristian. No doubt! We are more than half pagans at heart; we are as
our country and our traditions have made us. It will need another
visitation of Christ before we shall learn how to forgive those that
despitefully use us. Such a doctrine seems to us a mere play upon
words--a weak maxim only fit for children and priests. Besides, did
Christ himself forgive Judas? The gospel does not say so!

When I reached my own apartments at the hotel I felt worn out and
fagged. I resolved to rest and receive no visitors that day. While
giving my orders to Vincenzo a thought occurred to me. I went to a
cabinet in the room and unlocked a secret drawer. In it lay a strong
leather case. I lifted this, and bade Vincenzo unstrap and open it. He
did so, nor showed the least sign of surprise when a pair of richly
ornamented pistols was displayed to his view.

"Good weapons?" I remarked, in a casual manner.

My vallet took each one out of the case, and examined them both
critically.

"They need cleaning, eccellenza."

"Good!" I said, br