an
untidy old man with a weary face and snuff-stained fingers, the other
was a particularly spruce young fellow, with smug pink cheeks and
carefully trimmed nails. The room had one high window to the north, from
which a cold and dreary light fell upon the table and the three men.

The Legate proceeded to transact current business, receiving in turn a
number of officials and citizens who came of their own accord, or were
summoned, for various reasons, mostly connected with the revenue. When
he had dismissed them all, more or less satisfied or dissatisfied, as
the papal interests required, he ordered the officer at the door to send
for the prisoner who had been taken at the inn that morning.

'Let us see this famous Sicilian coiner,' he said, rubbing his hands and
screwing up his little red eyes. 'Bring up his effects, too, and send
for a goldsmith with his touchstone and acids.'

He leaned back in his high chair to wait, and mentally ran over the
questions he meant to ask. The shabby old clerk took snuff, and
sprinkled a liberal quantity of it on his spotted black clothes and on
the edge of the paper before him. His colleague at the other end
occupied himself in improving the point of his quill pen. In the
silence, a huge spotted cat sprang upon the table and calmly seated
itself upright beside the crucifix, facing the Legate, who paid no
attention whatever to it. From time to time it blinked and slowly moved
the yellow tip of its tail.

Presently Stradella was led in by the gaoler and his assistant. On his
wrists there were manacles, joined with each other by a strong chain
which was highly polished by constant use. He was bare-headed, of
course, and he seemed perfectly cool and self-possessed. Immediately
after him, two men entered bringing his luggage, which was set down on
the floor before the table. The cat did not even turn to look at the
people who had entered.

'What is your name?' asked the Legate, eyeing him sharply.

'Alessandro Stradella.'

Instead of writing down the answer the two clerks looked at their
superior for instructions.

'His name is Bartolo,' the Legate said, in a decided tone.

'By your worship's leave, my name is Stradella,' protested the musician.

'You may note that this fellow Bartolo persists in calling himself
Stradella,' said the Legate, looking first at one clerk and then at the
other.

'I am not Bartolo!' cried the musician indignantly. 'I am Alessandro
Stradella, the sing