walked up to him and touched him on the
shoulder. He started, looked round surprised, and did not appear to
recognize me. I remembered that when he had seen me I had not grown a
beard, neither had I worn dark spectacles. I recalled my name to him;
his face cleared and he smiled.

"Ah! buon giorno, eccellenza!" he cried. "A thousand pardons that I did
not at first know you! Often have I thought of you! often have I heard
your name--ah! what a name! Rich, great, generous!--ah! what a glad
life! And on the point of marrying--ah, Dio! love makes all the
troubles go--so!" and taking his cigar from his mouth, he puffed a ring
of pale smoke into the air and laughed gayly. Then suddenly lifting his
cap from his clustering black hair, he added, "All joy be with you,
eccellenza!"

I smiled and thanked him. I noticed he looked at me curiously.

"You think I have changed in appearance, my friend?" I said.

The Sicilian looked embarrassed.

"Ebbene! we must all change," he answered, lightly, evading my glance.
"The days pass on--each day takes a little bit of youth away with it.
One grows old without knowing it!"

I laughed.

"I see," I observed. "You think I have aged somewhat since you saw me?"

"A little, eccellenza," he frankly confessed.

"I have suffered severe illness," I said, quietly, "and my eyes are
still weak, as you perceive," and I touched my glasses. "But I shall
get stronger in time. Can you come with me for a few moments? I want
your help in a matter of importance."

He nodded a ready assent and followed me.

CHAPTER XXXI.

We left the Molo, and paused at a retired street corner leading from
the Chiaja.

"You remember Carmelo Neri?" I asked.

Andrea shrugged his shoulders with an air of infinite commiseration.

"Ah! povero diavolo! Well do I remember him! A bold fellow and brave,
with a heart in him, too, if one did but know where to find it. And now
he drags the chain! Well, well, no doubt it is what he deserves; but I
say, and always will maintain, there are many worse men than Carmelo."

I briefly related how I had seen the captured brigand in the square at
Palermo and had spoken with him. "I mentioned you," I added, "and he
bade me tell you Teresa had killed herself."

"Ah! that I well know," said the little captain, who had listened to me
intently, and over whose mobile face flitted a shadow of tender pity,
as he sighed. "Poverinetta! So fragile and small! To think she had the
for