rce-looking little man in a frogged coat
and a gold-banded cap, in the busy bank-room of Parodi at Genoa.

"And my qualities?" asked the other, haughtily.

"As you please, sir."

The stranger took the pen, and wrote "Milo M'Caskey, Count of the two
Sicilies, Knight of various orders, and Knight-postulate of St. John of
Jerusalem, &c. &c."

"Your Excellency has not added your address," said the clerk,
obsequiously.

"The Tuileries when in Paris, Zarkoe-Zeloe when in Russia. Usually
incog, in England, I reside in a cottage near Osborne. When at this side
of the Alps, wherever be the royal residence of the Sovereign in
the city I chance to be in." He turned to retire, and then, suddenly
wheeling round, said, "Forward any letters that may come for me to my
relative, who is now at the Trombetta, Turin."

"Your Excellency has forgotten to mention his name."

"So I have," said he, with a careless laugh. "It is somewhat new to me
to be in a town where I am unknown. Address my letters to the care
of his Highness the Duke of Lauenburg-Gluckstein;" and with a little
gesture of his hand to imply that he did not exact any royal honors at
his departure, he strutted out of the bank and down the street.

Few met or passed without turning to remark him, such was the contrast
between his stature and his gait; for while considerably below the
middle size, there was an insolent pretension in his swagger, a defiant
impertinence in the stare of his fiery eyes, that seemed to seek a
quarrel with each that looked at him. His was indeed that sense
of overflowing prosperity that, if it occasionally inclines the
right-minded to a feeling of gratitude and thankfulness, is just as
certain to impel the men of a different stamp to feats of aggressiveness
and insolence. Such was indeed his mood, and he would have hailed as the
best boon of Fate the occasion for a quarrel and a duel.

The contempt he felt for the busy world that moved by, too deep in its
own cares to interpret the defiance he threw around him, so elevated him
that he swaggered along as if the flagway were all his own.

Was he not triumphant? What had not gone well with him? Gold in his
pocket, success in a personal combat with a man so highly placed that
it was a distinction to him for life to have encountered; the very
peremptory order he received to quit Naples at once, was a recognition
of his importance that actually overwhelmed him with delight; and he saw
in the vista