After the first few moments of astonishment which followed Gerald’s awaking to see himself in a strange place, with strange and novel objects around him, his first thought was to return to Orvieto. He pictured to himself all the alarm his absence must have occasioned, and imagined how each in turn would have treated the event. The angry astonishment of the Cardinal, ready to adopt any solution of the mystery that implied intrigue and plot: the haughty indignation of the Contessa, that he had dared to take any step unauthorised by herself: the hundred rumours in the household: the questionings as to who had saddled and prepared his horse, what road he had taken, and so on.

There are natures—there are even families—in which a strong predominating trait exists to do or say whatever creates astonishment or attracts wonder. It is a distinct form of egotism, and was remarkably conspicuous in the House of Stuart. They all liked much to be objects of marvel and surprise; to have men lost in wonderment over their words or their motives, or speculating with ingenuity as to their secret intentions.

To Gerald himself this taste was a perfect passion, and he loved to see couriers arriving and departing in hot haste, while groups of eager loungers questioned and guessed at what it all might mean. He liked to fancy the important place he thus occupied in men’s thoughts, and would any day have been willing to encounter an actual danger could he only have assured himself of it being widely discussed. This dramatic tendency was strongly marked in the character of Charles Edward; still the actual events of his life were in themselves sufficiently adventurous to display it less prominently; but he ever delighted in these stage effects which strike by situation or a picturesque costume. Gerald inherited this trait, and experienced intense delight in its exercise. He fancied his Eminence the Cardinal, balancing between fear and anger, sending out emissaries on every side, asking counsels here, rejecting suggestions there, while Guglia, too haughty to confess astonishment, would be lost in conjecturing what had become of him.

If it should be wondered at that Gerald felt no more tender sentiment toward the lovely Countess with whom he had been closely domesticated, and who enjoyed so fully all the confidence of his fortunes, let us own frankly that it was not his fault; he did his very best to be in love with her, and for that very reason, perhaps, he failed! Not all the desire in the world will enable a man to catch a contagious malady, nor all his precautions suffice to escape it; so is it with love. Gerald saw in her one who would have adorned the highest station: she was eminently beautiful, and with a grace that was a fascination; she possessed to perfection those arts which charm in society, and had that blending of readiness in repartee with a sort of southern languor that makes a rare element of captivation; and yet with all this he did not fall in love. And the reason was this: Guglia had none of those sudden caprices, those moods of exorbitant hope or dark despondency, those violent alternations of temperament which suggest quick resolve, or quicker action. She was calm—too calm; reflective—too reflective—and, as he thought, infinitely too much occupied in preparing for eventualities either to enjoy the present or boldly to dare the future.

These traits of hers, too, wounded his self-love; they made him feel inferior to her; and he smarted under counsels and advice which came with the authority of dictations. A casual wound to his pride also aided this impression; it was an accidental word he had once overheard, as she was walking one evening with the Cardinal in an alley of the garden adjoining one in which he was standing. They had been discussing his fortunes and his character; and she remarked, with a certain bitterness in her tone, as if contradicting some hopeful anticipation of her uncle. ‘Non, caro zio non, E piu capace de farsi PrÊte.’ ‘No, my dear uncle: more likely is he to turn priest!’ Strange and significant words from one who held that order in depreciation, and could even dare to avow this estimate to one of themselves.

These words never left Gerald’s mind; they flashed across him as he awoke of a morning; they broke upon him as he lay thinking in his bed; they mingled with his speculations on the future; and, more fatally still, came to his memory at moments when, seated at his side, she inspired hopes of a glorious destiny. Again and again did he ask himself, how was it that esteeming him thus she was willing to join her fate to his? And the only answer was one still more wounding to his self-love.

What if she should have totally misconstrued this weak, uncertain nature? What if she should have misinterpreted this character so full of indecision? How, if this would-be priest were to turn out one reckless in daring, and indifferent to all consequences? How, if the next tidings she were to hear of him were from some far-away country: some scene that might show how cheaply he held the tinsel decoration of a mock station, the miserable pretension to a rank he was never to enjoy! ‘At all events,’ said he, ‘they shall have matter for their speculations, and shall not see me for some days to come!’ And with this determination—rather like the resolve of a pettish child than of a grown man—he sauntered into the mill, where the miller was now busily engaged.

‘Your master’s despatches have nothing very pressing in them, I see,’ said the miller; I scarcely thought to have met you this morning.’

‘I have ample time at my disposal,’ said Gerald; ‘so that I can reach St. Stephano some day within the coming week I shall be soon enough; insomuch that I have half a mind to gratify the curiosity you have excited in me and make a short ramble through the mountains yonder.’

‘Nay, nay, leave that track to your left hand; follow the road by the head of Lago Scuro, and don’t run your neck into peril for nothing.’

‘But you told me last night this Pastore was never cruel when it served no purpose: that he was far readier to help a poor man than to rifle him. What should I fear then?’

‘That he might look into the palm of your hand and see that it was one not much used to daily labour. If he but thought you a spy, per Bacco! I ‘d not be in your shoes for all the jewels in the Vatican!’

‘Couldn’t you manage to disguise me as one of your own people, and give me some sort of a letter for him?’

‘By the way, there is a letter for him these four days back,’ said the miller suddenly;’ and I have had no opportunity of sending it on.’

‘There, then, is the very thing we want,’ broke in Gerald.

‘Here’s the letter here,’ said the miller, taking the document from the leaves of a book. ‘It comes from the Ursuline Convent, on the other side of the Tiber. Strange enough that the Pastore should have correspondence with the holy ladies of St. Ursula. It was a monk, too, that fetched it here, and his courage failed him to go any farther. Indeed, I believe that picture of the Capri pass decided him on turning back.’

‘The greater fool he! He ought to have known that the Pastore was not likely to requite a good office with cruelty,’ said Gerald.

‘As to that, it would depend on what humour he was in at the moment.’ Then, after a pause, he added, ‘If you like to risk the chance of finding him in a good temper, you have only to borrow a coat and cap from one of my boys, and take that letter. You will tell him that it was I sent you on with it, and he ‘ll ask no further question.’

‘And these hands of mine that you said would betray me,’ said Gerald, ‘what shall I do to disguise them?’

* Some fresh walnuts will soon colour them, and your face too; and now let me direct you as to the road you ‘ll take.’ And so the miller, drawing Gerald to the window, began to describe the route, pointing out various prominent objects as landmarks.

Having acquainted himself, so far as he could, with all the details of the way, Gerald proceeded to costume himself for the expedition, and so completely had the dye on his skin and the change of dress metamorphosed him, that for a second or two the miller did not recognise him.

With a touch of humour that he rarely gave way to, Gerald saluted him in rustic fashion, while in a strong peasant accent he asked if his honour had no further commands for him.

The miller laughed good-humouredly, and shook his hand in adieu. ‘I more than suspect the black mare will be mine,’ muttered he, as he looked after Gerald till he disappeared in the distance.

For miles and miles Gerald walked on without paying any attention to the scene around him; the spirit of adventure occupied his mind to the exclusion of all else, and he not only imagined every possible issue to the present adventure, but fancied what his sensations might have been were it his fortune to have been launched upon the great enterprise to which his hopes so long had tended. ‘Oh, if this were but Scotland or Ireland,’ thought he; ‘if my foot now only trod the soil that I could call my own; if I could but realise to myself once, even once, the glorious sense of being recognised as one of that race that once ruled there as sovereigns; if I could but taste the intoxication of that generous devotion that through all his calamities once cheered my father, I ‘d think the moment had repaid me for all the cares of life! And now it has all passed away like a dream. As Purcell said, “They want us no longer!” “We belong to the past, and have no significance in the present! Strange, sad, mysterious destiny!” There was a humiliation in that feeling that gave him intense pain; it was the sense of being cut off from all sympathy, estranged from the wishes, the hopes, the ambition of his fellow-men. Out of an isolation like that it was that Gabriel Riquetti had taught him to believe men achieve their greatest successes. You must first of all feel yourself alone, all alone in life, ere you can experience that liberty that ensures free action.

This was one of his axioms which he loved to repeat; and whether suggested by the scene where he had first met that wonderful man, or merely induced by the course of reflection, many of Mirabeau’s early teachings and precepts rose to his memory as he journeyed along.

For some time he had been unconsciously ascending a somewhat steep mountain-path, so deeply imbedded between two lines of thick brushwood as to intercept all view at either side, when suddenly the way emerged from the dense copse and took the mountain side, disappearing at a jutting promontory of rock around which it seemed to pass. As his eye followed the track thus far he saw the flutter of what seemed a scarlet banner; but on looking longer discovered it was the gay saddle-cloth of a mule, from which the rider had apparently dismounted. He had but just time to mark this much ere the object disappeared beyond the rock.

Cheered to fancy that some other traveller might chance to be on the same road with himself, he now hastened his steps. The way, however, was longer than he had supposed, and on gaining the promontory he descried the mule fully two miles away, stealing carefully along over the rugged bridle-path on the mountain. The object became now a pursuit, and he strained his eyes to see if by some by-path he could not succeed in gaining on the chase. While thus looking he saw that two figures followed the mule at a little distance, but what they were he could not ascertain.

It was very unlikely that any of the “Pasture’s” followers would have adopted a gear so striking and so easily seen as this bright trapping, and so Gerald at once set the travellers down as some peasants returning to their homes in the Maremma, or on a pilgrimage to some religious shrine.

With no small exertion he so far gained upon them as to be able to note their appearance, and discover that one was a friar in the dusky olive-coloured frock of the Franciscan, and the other a woman, dressed in some conventual costume which he did not recognise. He could also see that the mule carried a somewhat cumbrous pack, and an amount of baggage rarely the accompaniment of a travelling friar.

Who has not felt his curiosity stimulated by some mere trifling circumstance when occurring in a remote spot, which had it happened on the world’s crowded highway would have passed unnoticed. It was this strange attendant on these wayfarers that urged Gerald to press on to overtake them. Forgetting the peasant costume which he wore and the part it thus behoved him to pursue, he called out in a tone of half command for them to stop till he came up.

‘Halt,’ cried he, ‘and tell me if this be the way to the Capri Pass!’

The friar turned hastily, and stood until Gerald approached.

‘You speak like one accustomed to give his orders on these mountains, my son,’ said he, in a tone of stern reproof; ‘so that even a poor follower of St. Francis is surprised to be thus accosted.’

By this time Gerald had so far recovered his self-possession as to see how he had compromised his assumed character, and in a voice of deep submission, and with a peasant accent he answered—

I ask pardon, worthy Fra, but travelling all alone in this wild region has so overcome me that I scarcely know what I say, or understand what I hear.’

‘Whence do you come?’ asked the friar rudely. ‘From the Mill at Orto-Molino.’

‘And whither are you going?’

‘To St. Stephano after I have delivered a letter that I have here.’

‘To whom is your letter addressed, my son?’ said the Fra, in a more gentle voice.

With difficulty did Gerald repress the sharp reply that was on his lips, and say—

‘It is for one that neither you nor I know much of—Il Pastore.’

‘I know him well,’ said the friar boldly; ‘and say it without fear of contradiction, I am the only one he makes a shrift to—ay, that does he, ill as you think of him,’ added he, as if answering the half-contemptuous smile on Gerald’s face. ‘Let’s see your letter.’

With an awkward reluctance Gerald drew forth the letter and showed it.

‘Ah!’ cried the Fra eagerly, ‘he had been looking for that letter this many a day back; but it comes too late now.’

As he said this he pressed eagerly forward and whispered to the nun who was walking at the side of the mule. She looked back hurriedly for an instant, and then as rapidly turned her head again. They continued now to converse eagerly for some time, and seemed totally to have forgotten Gerald, as he walked on after them; when the Fra turned suddenly round and said—

‘I ‘ll take charge of your letter, my son, while you guide our sister down to Cheatstone, a little cluster of houses you ‘ll see at the foot of the mountain; and if there be an answer I ‘ll fetch it to-morrow, ere daybreak.’

‘Nay, Fra, I promised that I would deliver this with my own hands, and I mean to be no worse than my word.’ ‘You ‘ll have to be at least less than your word,’ said the friar, ‘for the Pastore would not see you. These are his days of penance and mortification, and I am the only one who dares to approach him.’

‘I am pledged to deliver this into his own hand,’ said Gerald calmly.

‘You may have said many a rash thing in your life, but never a rasher than that,’ said the Fra sternly. ‘I tell you again, he ‘ll not see you. At all events, you ‘ll have to find the road by your own good wits, and it is a path that has puzzled shrewder heads.’

With this rude speech, uttered in the rudest way, the Fra moved hastily on till he overtook his companion, leaving Gerald to follow how he pleased.

For some time he continued on after the others, vainly straining his eyes on every side for any signs of a. pathway upward. The way which he had trod before, with hope to cheer him, became now wearisome and sad. He was sick of his adventure, out of temper with his want of success, and dissatisfied with himself. He at last resolved that he would go no farther on his track than a certain little olive copse which nestled in a cleft of the mountain, reaching which he would repose for a while, and then retrace his steps.

The sun was strong and the heat oppressive, insomuch that when at length he gained the copse, he was well pleased to throw himself down beneath the shade and take his rest. He had already forgotten the Franciscan and his fellow-traveller, and was deeply musing over his own fortunes, when suddenly he heard their voices, and, creeping noiselessly to the edge of the cliff, he saw them seated at a little well, beside which their breakfast was spread out. The woman had thrown back her hood and showed now a beautiful head, whose long black hair fell heavily on either shoulder, while her taper fingers, covered with many a splendid ring, plainly showed that her conventual dress was only a disguise. Nor was this the only sign that surprised him, for now he saw that a short brass blunderbuss, the regular weapon of the brigand, lay close to the friar’s hand.

‘It is the Pastore himself,’ thought Gerald, as he gazed down at the brawny limbs and well-knit proportions of the stranger. ‘How could I ever have mistaken him for a friar?’ The more he thought over the friar’s manner—his eagerness to get the letter, and the careless indifference afterward with which he suffered Gerald to leave him—the more he felt assured that this was no other than the celebrated chief himself.

‘At least, I have succeeded in seeing him, thought he; ‘and why should I not go boldly forward and speak to him? ‘The resolve was no sooner formed than he proceeded to execute it. In a moment after he had descended the cliff, and, making his way through the brushwood, stood before them.

‘So, then, you will track me, youngster,’ said the friar angrily. ‘Once—twice—to-day the road was open to you to seek your own way, and you would not take it. How bent you must be to do yourself an ill turn!’

‘You are “II Pastore,”’ said Gerald boldly.

‘And thou art Gherardi mio!’ cried the woman, as she rushed wildly toward him and clasped him in her arms. It was Marietta herself who spoke.

How tell the glorious outburst of Gerald’s joy, as he overpowered her with questions—whence she came, whither going, how and why, and wherefore there? Was she really and truly the Egyptian who had visited him on his sick-bed, and not a mere vision?

‘And was it from thy lips, then,’ cried he, ‘that I learned that all this ambition was but a snare—that I was destined to be only the tool of crafty men, deep in their own designss? At times the revelation seemed to come from thee, and at times a burst of heart-felt conviction. Which was it, Marietta mia?’

‘Who is he?’ cried the Fra eagerly. ‘This surely cannot be—ay, but it is the Prince—the son of my old lord and master!’ and he knelt and kissed Gerald’s hands over and over again. ‘He knows me not—at least as I once was—the friend, the boon companion of a king’s son,’ continued he passionately.

‘Were you, then, one of his old Scottish followers—one of those faithful men who clung so devotedly to his cause?’

‘No, no; but I was one that he loved better than them all.’

‘And you, Marietta, dearest, how is it that I see you here?’ cried Gerald, again turning to her.

‘I came many a weary mile after you, mio caro,’ said she. ‘I knew of these men’s designs long, long ago, and I determined to save you from them. I believed I could have secured Massoni as your friend; but I was wrong—the Jesuit was stronger in him than the man. I remained at St. Ursula months after I might have left it, just to see the PÈre—to watch his game—and, if possible, attach him to me; but I failed—utterly failed. He was true to his cause, and would not accept my love. More fortunate, however, was I with the Cardinal—even, perhaps, that I wished or cared for—His Eminence was my slave. There was not a secret of the Vatican I did not learn. I read the correspondence with the Spanish minister, Arazara; I suggested the replies; I heard the whole plan for your expedition—how you were to be secretly married to the Countess Ridolfi, and the marriage only avowed when your success was assured.’

She paused, and the Fra broke in—‘Tell all—everything—the mine has exploded now, and none are the worse for it Go on with your confession.’

‘It is of the other alternative he speaks,’ said she, dropping her voice to a faint whisper. ‘Had you failed——’

‘And then—what then, Marietta?’

‘You were in that case to have been betrayed into the hands of the English, or poisoned! The scheme to accomplish the first was already planned. I have here the letters which are to accredit me to see and converse with Sir Horace Mann, at Florence; and which I mean to deliver too. I am resolved to trace out to the very last who are the accomplices in this guilt. The world is well edified by tales of mob violence and bloodshed. Even genius seeks its inspiration in inveighing against popular excesses. It is time to show that crimes lurk under purple as well as rags, and that the deadliest vengeances are often devised beneath gilded ceilings. We knew of one once, Gherardi, who could have told men these truths—one who carried from this world with him the “funeral trappings of the monarchy” and the wail of the people.

‘Of whom did she speak?’ asked the friar.

‘Of Gabriel Riquetti, whom she loved,’ and the last words were whispered by Gerald in her ear.

Marietta held down her head, and as she covered her face with her hands muttered—‘But who loved not her!’

‘Gabriel Riquetti,’ broke in the friar, ‘had more of good and bad in him than all the saints and all the devils that ever warred. He had the best of principles and the worst of practices, and never did a wicked thing but he could show you a virtuous reason for it.’

Struck by the contemptuous glance of Marietta, Gerald followed the look she gave, and saw that the friar’s eyes were bloodshot, and his face purple with excess.