p in his lodge, and Rossi
passed upstairs.

"I'll bring the man to justice now," he thought. "He imagined we were
only tame cats and would submit to anything. He was wrong. We'll show
him we know how to punish tyrants. Haven't we always done so, we Romans?
He has a sharp tongue for the people, but I have a sharper one here for
him."

And he felt for the revolver in his breast-pocket to make certain it was
there.

The lackey in knee-breeches and yellow stockings who answered the inside
bell was almost speechless at the sight of the white face which
confronted him at the door. No, the Baron was not at home. He had not
been there since early in the evening. Had he gone to the Prefettura?
Possibly. Or the Consulta? Perhaps.

"Which, man, which?" said Rossi, and to say something the lackey
stammered "The Consulta," and closed the door.

Rossi set his face towards the Foreign Office. There was a light in the
stained-glass windows of the Pope's private chapel--the Holy Father was
at his prayers. A canvas-covered barrow containing a man who had been
injured by the soldiers was being wheeled into the Hospital of Santo
Spirito, and a woman and a child were walking and crying beside it.

The streets were covered with broken tiles which had been thrown on to
the heads of the cavalry as they galloped through the principal
thoroughfares. Carabineers, with revolvers in hand, were dragging
themselves on their stomachs along the roofs, trying to surprise the
rioters who were hiding behind chimney-stacks. Some one shouted: "Cut
the electric wires," and men were clambering up the tall posts and
breaking the electric lamps.

The Consulta, the office of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, stands in
the Piazza of the Quirinal, and when Rossi reached it the great square
of the King was as silent as the great square of the Pope had been.

Two sentries were in boxes on either side of the royal gate, and one
Carabineer was in the doorway. The gardens down the long corridor lay
dark in the shadows, but the fountain with sculptured horses, the
splashing water, and the front of the building were white under the
electric lamps as if from a dazzling moon.

Before turning into the silent courtyard of the Consulta, Rossi paused
and listened to the noises that came from the city. Men were singing and
women were screaming. The rattle of musketry mingled with the cries of
children. And over all were the steady downfall of the snow and the dull
ru