assed by next
time he had changed his attitude. He sat leaning forward. His elbows
were propped on his knees, and his hands were rolling a cigarette. He
never looked up from that occupation.

The Count continued his stroll away from the band. He returned slowly,
he said. I can imagine him enjoying to the full, but with his usual
tranquillity, the balminess of this southern night and the sounds of
music softened delightfully by the distance.

Presently, he approached for the third time the man on the garden seat,
still leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. It was a dejected
pose. In the semi-obscurity of the alley his high shirt collar and his
cuffs made small patches of vivid whiteness. The Count said that he had
noticed him getting up brusquely as if to walk away, but almost before
he was aware of it the man stood before him asking in a low, gentle tone
whether the signore would have the kindness to oblige him with a light.

The Count answered this request by a polite "Certainly," and dropped his
hands with the intention of exploring both pockets of his trousers for
the matches.

"I dropped my hands," he said, "but I never put them in my pockets. I
felt a pressure there--"

He put the tip of his finger on a spot close under his breastbone,
the very spot of the human body where a Japanese gentleman begins the
operations of the Harakiri, which is a form of suicide following
upon dishonour, upon an intolerable outrage to the delicacy of one's
feelings.

"I glance down," the Count continued in an awestruck voice, "and what do
I see? A knife! A long knife--"

"You don't mean to say," I exclaimed, amazed, "that you have been held
up like this in the Villa at half-past ten o'clock, within a stone's
throw of a thousand people!"

He nodded several times, staring at me with all his might.

"The clarionet," he declared, solemnly, "was finishing his solo, and I
assure you I could hear every note. Then the band crashed fortissimo,
and that creature rolled its eyes and gnashed its teeth hissing at me
with the greatest ferocity, 'Be silent! No noise or--'"

I could not get over my astonishment.

"What sort of knife was it?" I asked, stupidly.

"A long blade. A stiletto--perhaps a kitchen knife. A long narrow blade.
It gleamed. And his eyes gleamed. His white teeth, too. I could see
them. He was very ferocious. I thought to myself: 'If I hit him he
will kill me.' How could I fight with him? He had the knife and