person who gave me the news," my brother added, "was one of your
best friends, Count Manucci, an attache at the Venetian embassy. He said
there could be no doubt as to the truth of the report."

This letter was like a flash of lightning to me. This friend of mine had
pushed his vengeance so far as to pay assassins to deprive me of my life.

Manucci had gone a little too far.

He must have been pretty well qualified to prophesy, as he was so certain
of my death. He might have known that in thus proclaiming in advance the
manner of my death, he was also proclaiming himself as my murderer.

I met him at Rome, two years later, and when I would have made him
confess his guilt, he denied everything, saying he had received the news
from Barcelona; however, we will speak of this in its proper place.

I dined and supped every day at the table d'hote, and one day I heard the
company talking of a male and female pilgrim who had recently arrived.
They were Italians, and were returning from St. James of Compostella.
They were said to be high-born folks, as they had distributed large alms
on their entry into the town.

It was said that the female pilgrim, who had gone to bed on her arrival,
was charming. They were staying at the same inn as I was, and we all got
very curious about them.

As an Italian, I put myself at the head of the band who proceeded to call
on the pilgrims, who, in my opinion, must either be fanatics or rogues.

We found the lady sitting in an arm-chair, looking very tired. She was
young, beautiful, and melancholy-looking, and in her hands she held a
brass crucifix some six inches long. She laid it down when we came in,
and got up and received us most graciously. Her companion, who was
arranging cockle-shells on his black mantle, did not stir; he seemed to
say, by glancing at his wife, that we must confine our attentions to her.
He seemed a man of twenty-four or twenty-five years of age. He was short
and badly hung, and his face bore all the indications of daring,
impudence, sarcasm, and imposture. His wife, on the other hand, was all
meekness and simplicity, and had that modesty which adds so much to the
charm of feminine beauty. They only spoke just enough French to make
themselves understood on their journey, and when they heard me addressing
them in Italian they seemed much relieved.

The lady told me she was a Roman, but I could have guessed as much from
her accent. I judged the man to be a Neapolita