and flourished his blade in the air, calling "On!" without
stirring. "This infernal cigar!" he said; and to the mob, "What mongrel
of you took my cigar?" Stones thumped on his breast; the barrier-line
ahead grew denser. "I'll go at them first; you're bleeding," said
Wilfrid. They were refreshed by the sound of German cheering, as in
approach. Jenna uplifted a crow of the regimental hurrah of the charge;
it was answered; on they went and got through the second fence, saw
their comrades, and were running to meet them, when a weighted ball hit
Wilfrid on the back of the head. He fell, as he believed, on a cushion
of down, and saw thousands of saints dancing with lamps along cathedral
aisles.

The next time he opened his eyes he fancied he had dropped into the
vaults of the cathedral. His sensation of sinking was so vivid that he
feared lest he should be going still further below. There was a lamp
in the chamber, and a young man sat reading by the light of the lamp.
Vision danced fantastically on Wilfrid's brain. He saw that he rocked
as in a ship, yet there was no noise of the sea; nothing save the remote
thunder haunting empty ears at strain for sound. He looked again; the
young man was gone, the lamp was flickering. Then he became conscious of
a strong ray on his eyelids; he beheld his enemy gazing down on him and
swooned. It was with joy, that when his wits returned, he found himself
looking on the young man by the lamp. "That other face was a dream,"
he thought, and studied the aspect of the young man with the unwearied
attentiveness of partial stupor, that can note accurately, but cannot
deduce from its noting, and is inveterate in patience because it is
unideaed. Memory wakened first.

"Guidascarpi!" he said to himself.

The name was uttered half aloud. The young man started and closed his
book.

"You know me?" he asked.

"You are Guidascarpi?"

"I am."

"Guidascarpi, I think I helped to save your life in Meran."

The young man stooped over him. "You speak of my brother Angelo. I am
Rinaldo. My debt to you is the same, if you have served him."

"Is he safe?"

"He is in Lugano."

"The signorina Vittoria?"

"In Turin."

"Where am I?"

The reply came from another mouth than Rinaldo's.

"You are in the poor lodging of the shoemaker, whose shoes, if you had
thought fit to wear them, would have conducted you anywhere but to this
place."

"Who are you?" Wilfrid moaned.

"You ask who I am. I am the