rdi!" she called, "tell me, has one of
your people done this?"

"Nay," said the man, "none of the servants of the Bond nor yet of the
Mafia. Pietro the muleteer hath done it of his own evil heart for
robbery. Here are the watch and purse!"

"And the murderer--where is he?" said again Lucia. "Let him be brought!"

"He has had an accident, Excellency. He is dead," said Leonardi simply.

Then they took me up very softly, and bore me to the door from which I
had fled forth. Lucia walked with me. In the dusk of the leaves, while
the bearers were fumbling with the inner doors, which would swing in
their faces, Lucia put her hot lips to my hand, which she had held
kindly in hers all the way.

"Pardon me, Douglas," she said, and there was a break in her voice. I
felt the ocean of tears rising about me, and feared that I could not
find the words fittingly to answer. For the pain had made me weak.

"Nay," I said at last, just over my breath, "it was my folly. Forgive
me, little Saint Lucy of the Eyes! It was--it was--what was it that it
was?--I have forgotten--"

"An error in judgment!" said Saint Lucy of the Eyes, and forgave me,
though I cannot remember more about it.

I suppose I could take the title if I chose, for these things are easily
arranged in Italy; but Lucia and I think it will keep for the second
Stephen Douglas.

IV

UNDER THE RED TERROR

_What of the night, O Antwerp bells,
Over the city swinging,
Plaintive and sad, O kingly bells,
In the winter midnight ringing?_

_And the winds in the belfry moan
From the sand-dunes waste and lone,
And these are the words they say,
The turreted bells and they--_

_"Calamtout, Krabbendyk, Calloo,"
Say the noisy, turbulent crew;
"Jabbeke, Chaam, Waterloo;
Hoggerhaed, Sandvaet, Lilloo,
We are weary, a-weary of you!
We sigh for the hills of snow,
For the hills where the hunters go,
For the Matterhorn, Wetterhorn, Dom,
For the Dom! Dom! Dom!
For the summer sun and the rustling corn,
And the pleasant vales of the Rhineland valley_."

"_The Bells of Antwerp_."

I am writing this for my friend in Scotland, whose strange name I cannot
spell. He wishes to, put it in the story-book he is writing. But his
book is mostly lies. This is truth. I saw these things, and I write them
down now because of the love I have for him, the young Herr who saved my
brother's life among the black men in Egypt.