alent for so much
money these mishaps were unsatisfactory; but what the sufferer now most
desired was to save some remnant of his dignity before his servants, and
then to be avenged on those who had so signally frustrated his plans.

He was disappointed in the first of these wishes, at all events, for
when he was helped from his carriage by the porter and the running
footman at the foot of the grand staircase, he found himself face to
face with Alessandro Stradella, who was as pale as his own collar and
half mad with anxiety. One glance told the musician that Altieri had
been worsted in an adventure, which, he was sure, could only be
accounted for by Ortensia's disappearance.

'Where is my wife?' asked Stradella, standing in the way on the step.

Don Alberto was surprised and angry, and his shame at being seen in such
plight, in his own house, overcame any prudence or self-control he had
left. Besides, he felt himself sufficiently defended by his servants.

'Your wife?' he said, trying to push Stradella aside. 'She is in a
little house near the Lateran, with her lover!'

'Liar!'

With the ringing insult, the Sicilian's open hand struck Don Alberto
such a blow across the face that he staggered back against the carriage
step, the blood spurting from his nose and lips.

But almost at the same instant Gaetano, the big porter, and the
athletic footman threw themselves bodily upon Stradella, shouting for
help at the same time. Stablemen and grooms came running from the
courtyard at the cry, and the singer was overpowered in a few moments,
though he struggled fiercely, not so much for his freedom as to strike
Don Alberto again.

'Call the watch,' said the latter, staunching his blood with a lace
handkerchief as well as he could. 'You are all witnesses. He can be
taken to Tor di Nona in my carriage.'

Thereupon, with more dignity than might have been expected of a young
dandy in such a condition, he turned and went slowly up the broad stone
stairs, holding his handkerchief to his mouth. He expected his valet to
meet him at his door, but the man was not there: as a matter of fact he
was then lying on his back on a tombstone in the Jewish cemetery, bound
hand and foot, and securely gagged; and while he contemplated the stars,
he felt much too cool for his comfort. For Gambardella had come upon him
lurking near the door in the wall, after Tommaso had passed with
Altieri, and the Bravo had made short work of his liberty,