One of the under-jailers one day entered my prison with a mysterious look, and said, “Sometime, I believe, that Siora Zanze (Angiola) . . . was used to bring you your coffee . . . She stopped a good while to converse with you, and I was afraid the cunning one would worm out all your secrets, sir.”

“Not one,” I replied, in great anger; “or if I had any, I should not be such a fool as to tell them in that way. Go on.”

“Beg pardon, sir; far from me to call you by such a name . . . But I never trusted to that Siora Zanze. And now, sir, as you have no longer any one to keep you company . . . I trust I—”

“What, what! explain yourself at once!”

“Swear first that you will not betray me.”

“Well, well; I could do that with a safe conscience. I never betrayed any one.”

“Do you say really you will swear?”

“Yes; I swear not to betray you. But what a wretch to doubt it; for any one capable of betraying you will not scruple to violate an oath.”

He took a letter from his coat-lining, and gave it me with a trembling hand, beseeching I would destroy it the moment I had read it.

“Stop,” I cried, opening it; “I will read and destroy it while you are here.”

“But, sir, you must answer it, and I cannot stop now. Do it at your leisure. Only take heed, when you hear any one coming, you will know if it be I by my singing, pretty loudly, the tune, Sognai mi gera un gato. You need, then, fear nothing, and may keep the letter quietly in your pocket. But should you not hear this song, set it down for a mark that it cannot be me, or that some one is with me. Then, in a moment, out with it, don’t trust to any concealment, in case of a search; out with it, tear it into a thousand bits, and throw it through the window.”

“Depend upon me; I see you are prudent, I will be so too.”

“Yet you called me a stupid wretch.”

“You do right to reproach me,” I replied, shaking him by the hand, “and I beg your pardon.” He went away, and I began to read

“I am (and here followed the name) one of your admirers: I have all your Francesca da Rimini by heart. They arrested me for—(and here he gave the reason with the date)—and I would give, I know not how many pounds of my blood to have the pleasure of being with you, or at least in a dungeon near yours, in order that we might converse together. Since I heard from Tremerello, so we shall call our confidant, that you, sir, were a prisoner, and the cause of your arrest, I have longed to tell you how deeply I lament your misfortune, and that no one can feel greater attachment to you than myself. Have you any objection to accept the offer I make, namely, that we should try to lighten the burden of our solitude by writing to each other. I pledge you my honour, that not a being shall ever hear of our correspondence from me, and am persuaded that I may count upon the same secresy on your part, if you adopt my plan. Meantime, that you may form some idea, I will give you an abstract from my life.”—(It followed.)