the Abbe, pondering.

"He dismissed the carriage at the Pitti, so that in all likelihood he
passed the night at the palace."

"Most probably," said D'Esmonde, with a bland smile; And then, with a
courteous "Good-morning," he returned to his carriage.

"Where to, Signore?" asked the driver.

"Towards the Duomo," said he. But scarcely had the man turned the second
corner, than he said, "To the 'Moskova,' Prince Midchekoffs villa."

"We 're turning our back to it, Signore. It's on the hill of Fiesole."

D'Esmonde nodded, but said no more. Although scarcely a league from
the city, the way occupied a considerable time, being one continued and
steep ascent. The Abbe was, however, too deeply engaged with his own
thoughts to bestow attention on the pace they journeyed, or the scene
around. He was far from being insensible to the influence of the
picturesque or the beautiful; but now other and weightier considerations
completely engrossed his mind, nor was he aware how the moments passed
till the carriage came to a stop.

"The Prince is absent, sir, in Lombardy," said a gruff-looking porter
from within the gate.

D'Esmonde descended, and whispered some words between the bars.

"But my orders----my orders!" said the man, in a tone of deference.

"They would be peremptory against any other than _me_," said D'Esmonde,
calmly; and, after a few seconds' pause, the man unlocked the gate, and
the carriage passed in.

"To the back entrance," called out D'Esmonde. And they drove into
a spacious courtyard, where a number of men were engaged in washing
carriages, cleaning horses, and all the other duties of the stable. One
large and cumbrous vehicle, loaded with all the varied "accessories" of
the road, and fortified by many a precaution against the accidents of
the way, stood prominent. It was covered with stains and splashes,
and bore unmistakable evidence of a long Journey. A courier, with
a red-brown beard descending to his breast, was busy in locking and
unlocking the boxes, as if in search of some missing article.

"How heavy the roads are in the north!" said D'Esmonde, addressing him
in German.

The man touched his cap in a half-sullen civility, and muttered an
assent.

"I once made the same journey myself, in winter," resumed the Abbe,
"and I remembered thinking that no man undergoes such real hardship as
a courier. Sixteen, seventeen, ay, twenty days and nights of continued
exposure to cold and snows, and yet obl