hood, he loved dearly the smell of cheese and goats.

A goat had been his foster-mother; it was to her that he attributed his
splendid constitution and activity, which had filled in the spaces
between his financial successes with pleasure. As he trotted on into the
fog he tried to recall having knowingly done harm to somebody or other;
and because he could not, his face of a Roman emperor took on a great
look of peace.

"Biddy," he said after a time, in English (she was an Irish horse, and
English was the nearest he could get to her native language), "this is
no common Roman mist; it's a genuine fog that has been sucked up Tiber
from the salt sea. You can smell salt and fish. We shall be lost,
possibly for a long time. There will be no hot mash for you to-night.
You will eat what goats eat and be very grateful. Perhaps you will meet
some rural donkey during our adventures, and I must ask you to use the
poor little beast's rustic ignorance with the greatest tact and
forbearance. You will tell her tales of cities and travels; but do not
lie to excess, or appear condescending, lest you find her rude wits a
match for your own and are ashamed."

Asabri did not spend the night in a peasant's hut. Biddy did not meet
any country donkey to swap yarns with. But inasmuch as the pair lost
themselves thoroughly, it must be admitted that some of the banker's
wishes came true.

He had not counted on two things. At dinner-time he was hungry; at
supper-time he was ravenous. And he no longer thought of losing himself
on purpose, but made all the efforts in his power to get back to Rome.

"Good Heavens," he muttered, "we ought to have stumbled on something by
this time."

Biddy might have answered: "I've done some stumbling, thank you, and
thanks to you." But she didn't. Instead, she lifted her head and ears,
looked to the left, snorted, and shied. She shied very carefully,
however, because she did not know what she might shy into; and Asabri
laughed.

There was a glimmering point of light off to the left, and he urged
Biddy toward it. He saw presently that it was a fire built against a
ruined and unfamiliar tomb.

The fire was cooking something in a kettle. There was a smell of garlic.
Three young men sat cross-legged, watching the fire and the kettle.
Against the tomb leaned three long guns, very old and dangerous.

"Brigands!" smiled Asabri, and he hailed them:

"Ho there! Wake up! I am a squadron of police attacking you fr