her gentle self again.

"One only?" she asked.

"Only one, Excellency. No one will know that I have asked, for the man
will not tell."

"Are you sure? What did you say to him? Tell me."

"I said to him, 'Don Gennaro, I am the Conte di San Miniato's sailor.
Has the Conte sent any telegram this morning, to any one, anywhere?'
Then he shook his head; but he looked into his book and said, 'He sent
one to Florence at nine o'clock.' Then I said, 'I thank you, Don
Gennaro, and I will do you a service when I can.' That was for good
manners. Then I said, 'Don Gennaro, please not to tell any one that I
asked the question, and if you tell any one I will make you die an evil
death, for I will break all your bones and moreover drown you in the
sea, and go to the galleys very gladly.' Then Don Gennaro said that he
would not tell. And here I am, Excellency."

In spite of all she was suffering, Beatrice laughed at Ruggiero's
account of the interview. It was quite evident that Ruggiero had
repeated accurately every word that had been spoken, and he looked the
man to execute the threat without the slightest hesitation. Beatrice
wondered how the telegraph official had taken it.

"What did Don Gennaro do when you frightened him, Ruggiero?" she asked.

"He said he would not tell and got a little white, Excellency. But he
will say nothing, and will not complain to the syndic, because he knows
my brother."

"What has that to do with it?" asked Beatrice with some curiosity.

"It is natural, Excellency. For if Don Gennaro went to the syndic and
said, 'Signor Sindaco, Ruggiero of the Children of the King has
threatened to kill me,' then the syndic would send for the gendarmes and
say, 'Take that Ruggiero of the Children of the King and put him in, as
we say, and see that he does not run away, for he will do a hurt to
somebody.' And perhaps they would catch me and perhaps they would not.
Then Bastianello, my brother, would wait in the road in the evening for
Don Gennaro, and would lay a hand on him, perhaps, or both. And I think
that Don Gennaro would rather be dead in his telegraph office than alive
in Bastianello's hands, because Bastianello is very strong in his hands,
Excellency. And that is all the truth."

"But I do not understand it all, Ruggiero, though I see what you mean. I
am afraid it is your language that is different from mine."

"It is natural, Excellency," answered the sailor, a deep blush spreading
over his white for