that was declared just then with Russia. That
tempted me. For I loved danger and hardship,
as other men love safety and ease; and as for
my life, I had sooner have parted from it than
kept it, any day. So I came straight back to
England; betook myself to Portsmouth, where
my testimonials at once procured me the sort of
berth I wanted. I went out to the Crimea in the
engine-room of one of her Majesty's war steamers.

I served with the fleet, of course, while the
war lasted  and when it was over, went wandering
off again, rejoicing in my liberty. This time
I went to Canada, and after working on a railway
then in progress near the American frontier,
I presently passed over into the States; journeyed
from north to south; crossed the Rocky Mounains;
tried a month or two of life in the gold
country; and then, being seized with a sudden,
aching, unaccountable longing to revisit that
solitary grave so far away on the Italian coast, I
turned my face once more towards Europe.

Poor little grave! I found it rank with
weeds, the cross half shattered, the inscription
half effaced. It was as if no one had loved him,
or remembered him. I went back to the house
in which we had lodged together. The same
people were still living there, and made me
kindly welcome. I stayed with them for some
weeks. I weeded, and planted, and trimmed
the grave with my own hands, and set up a
fresh cross in pure white marble. It was the
first season of rest that I had known since I
laid him there; and when at last I shouldered
my knapsack and set forth again to battle with
the world, I promised myself that, God willing,
I would creep back to Rocca, when my days
drew near to ending, and be buried by his side.

From hence, being, perhaps, a little less
inclined than formerly for very distant parts, and
willing to keep within reach of that grave, I
went no further than Mantua, where I engaged
myself as an engine-driver on the line, then not
long completed, between that city and Venice.
Somehow, although I had been trained to the
working engineering, I preferred in these days
to earn my bread by driving. I liked the
excitement of it, the sense of power, the rush of
the air, the roar of the fire, the flitting of the
landscape. Above all, I enjoyed to drive a
night express. The worse the weather, the better
it suited with my sullen temper. For I was as
hard, and harder than ever. The years had done
nothing to soften me. They had only confirmed
all that was blackest and bitterest in my heart.

I continued pretty faithful to the Mantua
line, and had been working on it steadily for
more than seven months when that which I am
now about to relate took place.

It was in the month of March. The weather
had been unsettled for some days past, and the
nights stormy; and at one point along the line,
near Ponte di Brenta, the waters had risen and
swept away some seventy yards of embankment.
Since this accident, the trains had all been
obliged to stop at a certain spot between Padua
and Ponte di Brenta, and the passengers, with
their luggage, had thence to be transported in
all kinds of vehicles, by a circuitous country
road, to the nearest station on the other side of
the gap where another train and engine awaited
them. This, of course, caused great confusion
and annoyance, put all our time-tables wrong,
and subjected the public to a large amount of
inconvenience. In the mean while an army of
navvies was drafted to the spot, and worked
day and night to repair the- damage. At this
time I was driving two through trains each day;
namely, one from Mantua to Venice in the early
morning, and a return train from Venice to
Mantua in the afternoon—- a tolerably full day's
work, covering about one hundred and ninety
miles of ground, and occupying between ten
and eleven hours. I was therefore not best
pleased when, on the third or fourth day after
the accident, I was informed that, in addition
to my regular allowance of work, I should that
evening be required to drive a special train to
Venice. This special train, consisting of an.
engine, a single carriage, and a break-van, was
to leave the Mantua platform at eleven; at
Padua the passengers were to alight and find
post-chaises waiting to convey them to Ponte
di Brenta; at Ponte di Brenta another engine,
carriage, and break-van were to be in readiness.
I was charged to accompany them throughout.

"Corpo di Bacco," said the clerk who gave
me my orders, " you need not look so black,
man. You are certain of a handsome gratuity.
Do you know who goes with you?"

"Not I."

"Not you, indeed! Why, it's the Duca
Loredano, the Neapolitan ambassador."

"Loredano!" I stammered. " What Loredano?
There was a Marchese—-"

"Certo. He was the Marchese Loredano
some years ago; "but he has come into his
dukedom since then."

"He must be a very old man by this time."

"Yes, he is old; but what of that? He is
as hale, and bright, and stately as ever. You
have seen him before?"

"Yes," I said, turning away; " I have seen
him—- years ago."

"You have heard of his marriage?"

I shook my head.

The clerk chuckled, rubbed his hands, and
shrugged his shoulders.

"An extraordinary affair," he said. ' ' Made
a tremendous esclandre at the time. He
married his mistress—- quite a common, vulgar
girl a Genoese very handsome; but not
received, of course. Nobody visits her."

"Married her!" I exclaimed. " Impossible."

"True, I assure you."

I put my hand to my head. I felt as if I had
had a fall or a blow.

"Does she does she go to-night?" I faltered.

"O dear, yes—- goes everywhere with him
never lets him out of her sight. You'll see
her la bella Duchessa!"

With this my informant laughed, and rubbed
his hands again, and went back to his office.

The day went by, I scarcely know how,
except that my whole soul was in a tumult of
rage and bitterness. I returned from my afternoon's
work about 7.25, and at 10.30 I was