him thirty at a stretch.

"Ah," he said, "I have done fifty, without food, over the roughest and
mossiest mountains. I lived on what I shot, and for drink I had
spring-water. Nay, I am forgetting. There was another beverage, which
I wager you have never tasted. Heard you ever, sir, of that eau de vie
which the Scots call usquebagh? It will comfort a traveller as no thin
Italian wine will comfort him. By my soul, you shall taste it.
Charlotte, my dear, bid Oliphant fetch glasses and hot water and
lemons. I will give Mr. Hervey-Townshend a sample of the brew. You
English are all tetes-de-fer, sir, and are worthy of it."

The old man's face had lighted up, and for the moment his air had the
jollity of youth. I would have accepted the entertainment had I not
again caught Madame's eye. It said, unmistakably and with serious
pleading, "Decline." I therefore made my excuses, urged fatigue,
drowsiness, and a delicate stomach, bade my host good-night, and in
deep mystification left the room.

Enlightenment came upon me as the door closed. There in the threshold
stood the manservant whom they called Oliphant, erect as a sentry on
guard. The sight reminded me of what I had once seen at Basle when by
chance a Rhenish Grand Duke had shared the inn with me. Of a sudden a
dozen clues linked together--the crowned notepaper, Scotland, my aunt
Hervey's politics, the tale of old wanderings.

"Tell me," I said in a whisper, "who is the Count d'Albani, your
master?" and I whistled softly a bar of "Charlie is my darling."

"Ay," said the man, without relaxing a muscle of his grim face. "It is
the King of England--my king and yours."

II

In the small hours of the next morning I was awoke by a most unearthly
sound. It was as if all the cats on all the roofs of Santa Chiara were
sharpening their claws and wailing their battle-cries. Presently out
of the noise came a kind of music--very slow, solemn, and melancholy.
The notes ran up in great flights of ecstasy, and sunk anon to the
tragic deeps. In spite of my sleepiness I was held spellbound and the
musician had concluded with certain barbaric grunts before I had the
curiosity to rise. It came from somewhere in the gallery of the inn,
and as I stuck my head out of my door I had a glimpse of Oliphant,
nightcap on head and a great bagpipe below his arm, stalking down the
corridor.

The incident, for all the gravity of the music, seemed to give a touch
of farc