ould be given at my expense."

"What makes you fear this?" asked the Count.

"One idea. They might take it into their heads to examine separately all
the inhabitants of the castle. First your Excellency, as its principal
guest, then your humble servant, the gate-keeper, and even my assistant
Crespo. If all did not tell the same story the Grand Judge would see
some trick."

"You think so?" said the Count, moodily.

"I know so," said Pietro. "The Grand Judge, as the child's story-book
says of ogres, loves fresh meat, and would see a spot on the brow of an
angel. Now, I am not exactly an angel--and if he saw a spot, your
excellency's head might be safe, but for want of a chicken he might
twist my neck. The jailer would be the victim, and my friend the
executioner would have to do with me. I know him. He would be
enthusiastic in the operation, to make a vacancy in my place. He is
bound up in his family."

For an instant the Count had not heard the jailer. One single name
inspired him with the greatest terror, for it recalled one of the
participators in his escape. This man held in his own hands his own and
his accomplice's escape. Pietro had not foreseen all. This assistant,
the character and dress of whom he had assumed, this Crespo, this mole,
would be summoned before the magistrate. The keeper had seen and spoken
to him, had opened the gate of the castle to suffer him to pass out, or
at least fancied he had. What then would the man say? With great
emotion, then, Monte-Leone said,

"The danger does not come from the place you apprehend. One witness,
however, may ruin all."

"Of whom do you speak?" said Pietro, trembling.

"Of Crespo," said the Count.

"Ah--what have you to fear of Crespo?"

"Have you gained him over?"

"No. I was spared the trouble. At this moment the poor fellow is
probably in the other world."

"Have you killed him?" said the Count, with terror.

"For what does your excellency take me? One may yield to the prayers of
a prisoner, and secure a fortune by permitting him a few hours'
exercise, yet be no murderer. If Crespo dies, it is in consequence of
his unfortunate passion."

"Was he in love?"

"No. He was fond of water-rats."

"Horrible appetite."

"Not at all," said the jailer. "Crespo says the animal is very savory,
especially when fat as those in the ditches of the castle are. The
waters bear hither all the offal of Naples, and the rats live like
canons."

"And Crespo eats t