g passed between them as they followed the young sculptor through
many an intricate by-way and narrow lane, and at last reached the little
stream on whose bank stood his studio.

"What have we here!" exclaimed Baynton as he saw it; "is this a little
temple?"

"It is my workshop," said the boy, proudly, and produced the key to open
the door.

Scarcely had he crossed the threshold, however, than his foot struck
a roll of papers, and, stooping down, he caught up a large placard,
headed, "Morte al Tiranno," in large capitals. Holding the sheet up to
the moonlight, he saw that it contained a violent and sanguinary
appeal to the wildest passions of the Carbonari,--one of those savage
exhortations to bloodshedding which were taken from the terrible
annals of the French Revolution. Some of these bore the picture of the
guillotine at top, others were headed with cross poniards.

"What are all these about?" asked Baynton, as he took up three or four
of them in his hand; but the youth, overcome with terror, could make no
answer.

"These are all _sans-culotte_ literature, I take it," said his Lordship;
but the youth was stupefied and silent.

"Has there been any treachery at work here?" asked Baynton. "Is there a
scheme to entrap you?"

The youth nodded a melancholy and slow assent.

"But why should you be obnoxious to these people? Have you any enemies
amongst them?"

"I cannot tell," gloomily muttered the youth.

"And this is your statue?" said Baynton, as, opening a large shutter, he
suffered a flood of moonlight to fall on the figure.

[Illustration: 242]

"Fine!--a work of great merit, Baynton," broke in his Lordship,
whose apathy was at last overcome by admiration. But the youth stood
regardless of their comments, his eyes bent upon the ground; nor did he
heed them as they moved from side to side, examining the statue in all
its details, and in words of high praise speaking their approval.

"I'll buy this," muttered his Lordship. "I'll give him an order, too,
for another work,--leaving the subject to himself."

"A clever fellow, certainly," replied the other.

"Whom does he mean the figure to represent?"

"It is Alcibiades as he meets his death," broke in the youth; "he is
summoned to the door as though to welcome a friend, and he falls pierced
by a poisoned arrow,--there is but legend to warrant the fact. I cared
little for the incident,--I was full of the man, as he contended with
seven chariots in the