tched to the
prison. I passed such a night as Dante might have imagined in his Vision
of Hell. All the beds were full, and even if there had been a spare place
I would not have occupied it. I asked in vain for a mattress, but even if
they had brought me one, it would have been of no use, for the whole
floor was inundated. There were only two or three chamber utensils for
all the prisoners, and everyone discharged his occasions on the floor.

I spent the night on a narrow bench without a back, resting my head on my
hands.

At seven o'clock the next morning Manucci came to see me; I looked upon
him as my Providence. I begged him to take me down to the guard-room, and
give me some refreshment, for I felt quite exhausted. My request was
granted, and as I told my sufferings I had my hair done by a barber.

Manucci told me that my letters would be delivered in the course of the
day, and observed, smilingly, that my epistle to the ambassador was
rather severe. I shewed him copies of the three others I had written, and
the inexperienced young man told me that gentleness was the best way to
obtain favours. He did not know that there are circumstances in which a
man's pen must be dipped in gall. He told me confidentially that the
ambassador dined with Aranda that day, and would speak in my favour as a
private individual, adding that he was afraid my letter would prejudice
the proud Spaniard against me.

"All I ask of you," said I, "is not to tell the ambassador that you have
seen the letter I wrote to the Count of Aranda."

He promised he would keep the secret.

An hour after his departure I saw Donna Ignazia and her father coming in,
accompanied by the officer who had treated me with such consideration.
Their visit cut me to the quick; nevertheless, I felt grateful, for it
shewed me the 'goodness of Don Diego's heart and the love of the fair
devotee.

I gave them to understand, in my bad Spanish, that I was grateful for the
honour they had done me in visiting me in this dreadful situation. Donna
Ignazia did not speak, she only wept in silence; but Don Diego gave me
clearly to understand that he would never have come to see me unless he
had felt certain that my accusation was a mistake or an infamous calumny.
He told me he was sure I should be set free, and that proper satisfaction
would be given me.

"I hope so," I replied, "for I am perfectly innocent of any offence." I
was greatly touched when the worthy man slipped i