MAUBIKECK,

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XV, Issue XXIV, 14 December 1895, Page 751

MAUBIKECK,

THE LION-TAMER.

By

Seward W. Hopkins.

Author of ‘Jack Robbins of America,’ ‘ln tiik China Sea,’ ‘Two Gentlemen of Hawaii.’ ‘On a False Charge,’ Etc., Etc. UHAFTER XV. My reflections, fas the long hours dragged themselves along toward morning, were anything but refreshing. The dominant thought, of course, was that I had got myself into a bad scrape and would probably lose my life. I saw no way to prevent the successful execution of any plan for my punishment or extinction which the prejetto saw fit to put into operation. The law was against me. In fact, had there been any opportunity to prove my innocence of the charge of murder, the power of the prefelto was so great that my punishment for entering his house to carry away Barlotti might* be as severe as he chose to make it. For one moment the thought did come to me : ‘ There is the United States Minister.* I dismissed this idea as holding out no hope. To begin. I would have great difficulty in proving to our representative that my act was justifiable. And my knowledge of the policy of our State Department led me to believe that no matter how innocent I was or how much of an injustice my punishment might be, I could expect no succour from my government. And even had I felt sure of assistance from that quarter, I had no means of communicating with our representative. In fact. I was entirely cut off from all coni munication with the world. My friends wou’d probably never hnow what became of me My only hope was Mutterelli. And where, through all this, was Mutter* edi ? Calling to my assistance all the nerve I possessed, I resolved to put on as good a face in the matter as possible, and not allow the prefetto or his guards to see any signs of weakness in my demeanour. The room in which I was held was well lighted by a large lamp which hung from the ceiling. I drew a chair under the lamp, and with the same monchaiance which would have characterised me had I been in my favourite corner at the Lotus Club with the major and Dilkins around me instead of the black looking Sardinians, I pulled from my pocket and began to read the. paper I had taken from the table in. Pacho Maligni's room. This act of mine was not merely bravado. I resolved to learn the contents of that manuscript, if I died the next day. I did not know but it would be taken away from me, and even though I escaped from Cagliari, 1 would never Know the secret of the red box. As I opened the paper to read, I narrowly watched the guards to see if the act had any significance in their eye*. Certainly it had none, for they smoked cigarettes and chatted to each other, ignoring my performance, and carrying their zeal in the prefetto's service only to the point of preventing my escape. I read the paper over quickly, and then again slowly, digesting every word of the remarkable production. The writing was poor and cramped. The construction was odd and faulty, as if the work was beyond the meagre powers of the writer. The spelling was bad, yet 1 devoured it with no thought of criticism. It read as follows : • New York City, in the Stat New York, in the United Stats of America, May 16, 18—. ‘To the person who, when I am dead, shall obtain this paper, I salute. It is that I am at every day in the great danger of being killed by an accident in my profeshun thab I leave in this form the story of Nita Barlotti, that perhaps in some long day to become she may be restored to those where she belong and who haf lost her. And it is that I hope the person who reads this letter first is an hones person that I now betray this secret that is upon my heart, but wich I am not powerful to solve nor to do justit to the dear aignorina, who is like my own daughter to me. And I, who am known to the world as Barlotti, the Trapeze King, pray to that person who reads these word to do what he can and what I cannot to the good end that Nita Barlotti may know who she really is, and may come into her own if she is, as I belief, the daughter of a rich person. •It is that I am most in America, and shall perhaps die among the English-speak-ing people, that I use not my own language to write, and it is that wich makes my words not to be the words of the educated man.

* It will be a surprise to the person who find this to know that my name it is not B irlotti, but Sigmotta. Yes, lam Antonio Sigmotta, and Barlolti is the name I haf taken in the circus to please my brother, who was very rich and u physician in New York. * When I came this country I was poor—very poor. I went to my brother, and he was angry to me in word, but he did some kindness to me that he let ine live in his house till I haf money to keep myself. I make contract with Maligni to go in the circus as trapeze actor, and my brother mak me change my name, so not to disgrace him. * While I lived with my brother I was sad that he was a bad man, and swore oaths and drank much liquors, and was drunk much of the time. And bad men came to see him. * My brother haf many times told me he was a professor in one big college where medicine is taught. This Ido not know. * One day 1 went into my brother’s private room for something. It was a workshop—he call laboratoria or some like that. It was at the night, and was very dark. My brother was in his bedroom. I did not know what he was doing, and he did not know 1 was in the house, for 1 hud been out and just came in. * 1 lighted the gas in the laboratoria, and found what I was looking for—some medicine ho gave me when I had the aching of the head. * As I was about to turn back the gas to go out, I saw a bundle on the floor. It seemed to me that it move. Then I stood still, and I hear a little cry like a child. 1 rush to the door. I listen for my bro'her, but he not to bo heard. I open the bundle. It was a sack, with strings in the end. It had in it a little child—a girl. I drew it out The child breath and moan, but do not seem to know, and then I know my brother had given it a drug. * Then I hurry, trembling much, and I took some cloths and other things and I make a rag baby just the siza of the child I took from the sack. I put the rag baby in the sack and made it tight like it was be fore I opened it. Then I quick carry the live child to my room and hide it in tty bed. Then I watch. Pretty soon my brother come and go to the laboratoria. I keep quiet so he do not hear me, and follow liim. He take the sack and my rag baby and steal from his own house like he was a thief, and I knew he was worse. Still, I follow him. I knew that no one would touch the child, because I had lock the door of my room and haf the key in my Docket, and it was so heavy with the drug that it would sleep yet longer. * My brother went into a dark street and went to the docks on the East River. I saw him take a stone and tie a cord to it and around the sack. Then he threw all into the water. When he saw it sink he turn round and sneak home. In twenty minutes I come homo like I had not been there before, and my brother was sitting in the library reading and smoking and drinking wine, like he was not a murderer. I spoke to my brother, but did nob drink wine with him, and then I went to my room. * I had in New York, near my brother’s house, a sweetheart. I met her at a concert hall, and I often went to see her at her house. She was a great singer, and I love her, so I want to marry her. She was a good girl, and her name was Nita. * Late in the night I took the child, and when my brother was asleep I stole from his house and carried the child to Nita. I told her all about my brother, and she pro inised not to say one word, for I knew my brother would kill me if he knew. I was then intend to find out who the child was, and if she had parents who love her, give her back. But I must go with Maligni in the circus, and I leave the little girl with Nita till I come home. When I come home my brother Charles was gone, and I never saw him again. Nita was married to me and she called the little girl Nita after herself. For a few years my wife Nita, and little Nita,travel with me in the circus, but my wife Nita take sick and die. Then I haf little Nita put in a big school in Albany, and she is there now. •I haf a pin and a locket and chain wich little Nita wore, and wich I haf kept They will be in the box with this letter. On the pin is the name Alice. The locket haf a picture of a beautiful lady. I took this picture out and put a little slip of paper under it with the date on it when I found the child. ‘This is all I know. I love little Nita like she was my own. My brother’s name is Charles Sigmot'a, but I do not know where he is. Little Nita is at Madame De Long's school in Albany, in the Stat of New York. * I swear by all the holy saints that what I haf written is true. • Antonio Sigmotta.' Here, indeed, was a valuable document. My exultation was so great that I seemed to have Ralph Graviacourt completely routed, and Edith Broughton’s sweet face seemed to smile encouragingly at me from way across the sea. But after a few minutes of supreme gratification, the thought

Hashed over me that the statement of Antonio Sigmotta, otherwise known ae Barlotti, did not in any way connect Ralph Graviscourt with the case. Of course, the photograph, the pin with tho name Alice engraved upon it anti Nita Barloi.ti’s striking resemblance to the wife of Charles Graviscourt, were to mv mind conclusive evidence, but would the evidence hold in law ? I knew it would not. I took the locket from my pocket, re moved the picture and found u slip of white paper bearing a date. I examined this, and my heart throbbed with excitement w hen I saw that the date of i)octos Sigmotta’s attempted murder of Nita Barlotti was the same as that inscribed upon the tombstone in Trinity Cemetery, New York, as the date of little Alice Gravis court’s death. 1 carefully replaced the paper and the picture, and with wild dreams of what might occur if I ever escaped from the clutches of the prefetto, I passed the remainder of the night half sleeping on a broad, low couch that stood in one corner of the guard room. CHAPTER XVI. I had, i suppose, what must from courtesy be called a trial. If a tribunal where the law is all on the side of the strong, and where the prisoner does not understand one-half what is being said about him, much less have anything to say for himself, and where the judge is the plaintiff, can be said to give a man a trial, then I had a trial. In the morning I was served with a substantial breakfast, and soon after 1 had disposed of it I was conducted before the prefetto. The elder Maligni looked at mo with a venomous glance, and I saw in the faces of the crowd of men around him not one glance of friendliness. They were Sardinians, all of them, some being in the unitoim of the guard, some being evidently men of rank, and others dressed in the garb of priests and friars from the monastery. And every one looked upon me with the same madgnant expression as did the brother of the man I was supposed to have killed. Among the spectators was a rascal lylooking fellow who was called by the prefMo * Pordino,’ and ae he seemed to have the friendship of the powerful Maligni, 1 at once identified him as the Count di Pordino, the uncle of Henry Thorlane, spoken of by Mutterelli. So far ae mv being a force or factor in my own behalf was concerned, I might as well have been absent. First one of the priests said something. Of course, I did not understand all that he was telling the prefMo, but I understood enough to know that he was testifying that he had seen me near the villa the dav before, and that my action was such as to indicate evil designs. Then a man who looked as he might be a house - servant jabbered something, which I did not understand at all. My trial was now well under way. The captain of the guard testified and told how 1 had been captured while fleeing from the place, how I attempted to shoot the guard, and how I was making off with Nita Barlotti, the facts as known making it perfectly plain to him that my object in murdering .Maligni was to abduct his bride. Nita was not brought into the room during the trial, and did not seem to be an important factor. There was not a friendly voice raised in my behalf. I made an attempt to speak, but was ordered to be auiet. When the testimony was all in, the prefMo turned to me, and said : * Young man, I have listened to the evidence against you, and I find that you are guilty of the murder of my brother. From to day, you are the same ae dead. The sentence which I shall impose upon you is that you be put in the Cagliari prison and work for the State during the remainder of your life. That is all I have to say to you.’ ‘ But !’ I cried, springing th my feet, ‘ I am not guilty. I swear to you; prefetto, that Ido not know who killed your brother ! I had no cause to hate him or to wish him dead ! But others had ’ An attempt at his life was made in New York. I saw i>, but I had nothing to do with it. Your brother had enemies who have tracked him here. I—’ ‘Enough. You were seen yesterday, in company with another, examining my villa and grounds. At night my brother is murdered, and you are found on my pro-

perty, cairying oft my brother's promised wife. It is enough.’ Then, turning to the guard, he uttered a command, and 1 was conducted from this hall of justice to my prison. The prison of Cagliari is what is called * Torre dell Elefante,* a veritable fortress, standing on tho high ground of the city, overlooking, on the south, the waters of tire bay, and to the northward the rising mountains and valleys beyond. As I entered the great iron gates of the prison yard, and hoard them clang behind me, I telt tho deepest despair, and admitted to myself that there was little hope of regaining my liberty. I was at once given into the hands of the keeper of the prison, and was put t through the regular routine of measuring, photographingand otherwise identifying,common in European prisons. My hair was shoved close, and my moustache as well. My clothes were taken from me, and I was clad in the bi co'oured prison suits with which Sardinia clothes its prisoners. These suits are made of stuff very similar to that in us© for the same purpose in the United States, but the colours, instead of running in stripes, are divided in the middle. One half, measuring from a lino drawn from the nose downward is dark, and the other light. When I had been thus clothed, I had one arm, leg. and the right side of tny body black, and the left artn, leg, and half of my body a dirty grey. My watch, the god locket and pin that 1 bad taken from Maligni were t ken from me, but the letter of Antonio Sigmotta was returned to me with a shrug of the keeper's shoulders, as if to indicate that if the possession of a piece of paper would make me any happier, 1 might have it fur all he cared to the contrary. This done, I was conducted with scant ceremony to a dungeon cell, and was thrust into it, my brutal keeper taking tho unnecessary trouble to give me a kir k before he locked me in. If my reflections had heretofore been gloomy, they were now doubly so. I could but leel the most horrible forebodings for the future. Yet, I declared to myself, I would never give up altogether. My cell was perhaps twenty feet square, high up in the tower, and overlooked the north. The floor was of stone, and the walls of some kind of cement. The furniture consisted of an iron bedstead, an old chair, and a sma'l table. The light came through a small grated window which was above mv head, nnd in the corners of the cell there was a damp, clammy darkness that I could feel as well as see. Somehow I had acquired a bull-dog sullenness that was not at all part of my nature. I felt that had these things happened to me before I had met the unfortunate Mnubikeck. I would have now lost all hope and fortitude, and would have thrown myself upon the bed of my cell in an agony of despair, and perhaps would have lost my reason throught it all. But I had learned something from tho dead, and I resolved that, no matter what came, or what I might feel, I would exhibit no emotion, no fear, no regret, to the sneering eyes of my relentless persecutors. For a time after I reached my cell, I was greatly worked up, the excitement of tho day and of the previous night having a try effect on my nerves. But as the hours wore on, the fact that I had slept little began to tell on me, and I grew drowsy. Sitting on my hard chair, I gave myself up to my bitter reflections, and finally my head drooped, and, overcame by the drowsiness which was increased by the silence of my cell, I fell asleep, and my waking meditations became merged in a dream in which I renewed acquaintance with Major Simmons and Dilkins, and saw their faces, and the face of Edith Broughton, and the faces of other friends peering at me, some in pity, some in alarm, some with love. And most strongly outlined among them all was tho calm, stern face of my dead hero, Maubikeck. There was an inspiration in that face as, half sleeping, I saw it looking down at me. It bade me rouse myself. It shone like a beacon before me, leading me to a resolution that I would never have reached but for this fantastic appearance. It brought to my mind the heroism of Maubikeck, by whoso death I was given life. The manliness of his nature seemed imparted to mine. I recollected that Nita Barlotti, the girl whom I had sworn to save, was still in the hands of men whoso purposes were not always good. My own love for Edith

Broughton welled up within tie, and surged through my heart ae it had never done before. Perhaps an hour passed, and 1 awoke. My dream was ended. 1 awoke from it a now man. My despair had gone. In its place had developed a resolve to tucapi. Yet the prospects were meagre. The prison was a strong one and well guarded. I arose from my chair and walked around my ?ell. The air was damp. The cement walls were clammy and moist. My footstep. ringing on the stone door, gave out a startling sound. Near the window I paused. I saw some words carved in the cement wall. They were in shadow, and it required some minutes of effort before 1 could decipher them. Shading my eyes from the light which came through the grated window, I gazed steaddy at the letters until, accustomed to the dim light which fell upon them, 1 made them out. On one line, carved in bold letters, was the name * Henry Thorlane.' And under it, in smaller but no less distinct character, were the words, ‘I will avenge.’ I was in the cell occupied once by the son of the Englishman about whom Mutterelli had told me, and who was now, according to Mutterelli, in the monastery of The Saints. Moved by curiosity, 1 felt along the walls even in the darkest corners, hoping to find something more from the prisoner of state, and feeling a morbid interest in the promised vengeance of Thorlane. I wished sincerely that 1 might ellect a co-operation with him, and unite my energies with his in destroying the power of the prefetto. But he was in the monastery and 1 was in the prison The chances of communication ever being established between us were remote, indeed. But the motto of Thorlane strengthened my resolution to escape, and from that moment 1 had no other idea in my head. There was no room in my brain tor any other thought than that. It filled me and moved me and controlled my actions. The first thing to be done was to learn as much us possible of my surroundings, This was an easy matter so fur ae the cell was concerned. I knew every inch of it already. But there was the window. 1 dragged the table across tho stone floor nnd climbed upon it. It put me just high enough to enable mo to look out through the strong bare of the little window. Looking down, 1 saw that the prison yard extended about forty feet from the prison walls, and was surrounded by a stone wall, surmounted by sharpened spikes, over which it would be imppossible to c imb. An armed sentry paced to an fro in the yard, adding another factor to the impracticability of trying to escape in that direction, even if I could obtain an exit from the cell into the yard. But if I could not get over the spiked fence I could look through it, and a fine stretch of country lay beyond the forbidding pointe. To the right I saw just a portion of the monastery rising above the trees —just one end of it. Farther away I saw a high tower, which 1 recognised as one which Mutterelli had shown me when we were taking our reconnoitering tour on horseback. It had then been to the east of us. Butting it in line now with the corner of the monastery, gave me the impression that I was looking northward. The tower was not north fiom me. but oil to the right, which would be nearly east. But a line from my little window, straight ahead, would, 1 thought, lead directly to the northward and, therefore, aioaii from Cagliari. A winding road extended from the east, being near the prison, where it first came within tho range ot my vision from the window. Then it turned northward, crossed the valley, and pursued a zig zag course up a ragged mountain side. It was rough, and looked as if it might be difficult of ascent. And from my perch in the window, the far-oil rocks and hills and rugged paths seemed to oiler no end of hiding-places if I could but reach them. Of course, I would be at a disadvantage in not knowing the country, while those who would be my pursuers knew, probably, every foot of it. But this difficulty seemed small and insignificant compared to the greater and present one of iron bars and stone walls. Still meditating, pondering and cudgeling my brain over the problem of escape, 1 stepped down from the table, replaced it and took a few turns around my coll to stretch my legs. I was getting hungry, and knew that it must be noon. I supposed they fed prisoners in Sardinia, and waited patiently tor my portion. 1 did not expect anything very appetizing, but to successfully put into operation any plan to escape 1 must have my full strength, and to that end 1 determined to devour whatever food they put before me. Dinner lime came at last, and I was agreeably surprised to receive at tho hands of tho keeper a substantial meal. Doing justice to this, I felt like a new man, ready for any emergency and willing to t ako any chance for liberty. But I must,

I reasoned, bide my time and wait for a promising opportunity. If I made an at tempt to escape and failed, 1 knew that I would be put in irone or otherwise confined, eo that any further attempt would be impossible. I remembered that the prejetto had told me that I was to be put at labour for the State. As yet there had been no hint at what this labour might be. Perhaps I was not to be kept in this cell many days, but, like Henry Thorlane, removed to the monastery or some other place, there to work out my punishment. I knew that so long as I was in that cell I could do nothing without tirst taking the life of my keeper, and I did not wish to kill a man who was but doing hie duty to his government as he understood it. And even if I killed him. 1 knew that the danger of detection before I got away from the building would be very great. So I resolved to wait awhile, and to conduct myself as to allay all suspicion, lull my keepers into a sense of security, and then see what would be done with me. And so I waited. The night came on, and with it my supper, which I ate with less relish than I had my dinner, because it was not as good a meal, and because the lack of exercise interfered with my usually ready appetite. During the long night I lay on my prison bed, sleeping part of the time, but having wakeful hours, in which I pondered and studied over the great problem of my life—how to escapie and carry the plans, now seemingly ended in disaster, to a successful termination. And one day followed another in this wise, and night followed night, until I had spent a week in the prison. 1 had heard nothing from Mutterelli, and gave him up. Having lost eight of the promised reward, he had, no doubt, lost all interest in me. I had held no communication with the outside world, because it was not permitted. I gained the good will of my guard or keeper, and he spent many an hour with me—the locked door between us —I in my cell, he in the corridor, talking through the window of the door. For this officer of the State had taught me many words of the language, and I found that, with my knowledge of Latin, it was not difficult to pick up the peculiar dialect of Sardinia. This whiled away the time pleasantly, and 1 thought the ability to make myself understood in the native tongue would be a valuable help to me if I over succeeded in effecting my escape. So I drew him on, learning all 1 could each day, hoping, dreaming, waiting for that supreme moment in which my blow for liberty should be struck. CHAPTER XVII. * Number 101 !’ * What is it ?' • You are to be put into a road gang thia morning, and go out to work on the public boulevard.' I was known as Number 101. My keeper imparted the above delightful information to me on the ninth day of my imprisonment. I say delightful because I mean it, and do not use the word in an ironical sense. The news was indeed delightful and gratifying. It was what I had waited for. It was the beginning of my labour for the State, and my hopes rose, for now, surely, I would find an opportunity to strike for my liberty. • When am I to go’’ I asked in a disinterested way, as if it did not matter to me whether 1 remained in the cell or worked outside. *ln one hour. Be ready.’ I had been ready a week. That hour seemed as long as any of the previous days had seemed, so eager was I to get outside ihe walk of the prison, to

breathe the pore air again, to stimulate my muscles with exercise, and to work for my own deliverance. When at last the hour was up and I was called, I stepped from my cell, and was conducted by an armed guard into an open court, where a score or more of prisoners were assembled. They were an ugly-looking lot. There were laces in the crowd that showed the passions of hate and all forms of wickedness. They all seemed to be Italian or Sardinian types. I was the only exception. I was placed alongside a villainouslooking ruffian, whose malodorous presence was decidedly nauseating. We were about in the centre of the column, which was formed of twos. We were guarded by a dozen armed men, all about as villainous in their appearance as my fellow prisoners. Having, by dint of great executive ability, loud talking, and cursing, got us in proper form, our keepers marched us forth to do the work to which we had been assigned. We were marching along the road leading northward from Cagliari; then turning to the west, we journeyed in that direction about an hour. At last we came up a rough road leading to the northward, that bore indications of being an unfinished work. Stones and piles of sand lay about. Stakes were driven into the ground to mark the edges of the road. It was, as I correctly surmised, a new public road, leading from Cagliari proper, in the shore region, out to the suburbs, and was to be a smooth, hard road for driving and pleasuretaking. I judged from the direction that this new road ran parallel with, and perhaps four miles distant from, the one I had seen from my cell windows, running over the ragged mountains. The officer in command lost no time, but put us at once to work. Most of the prisoners had evidently been there before, for they seemed to know just what to do, as if they were resuming work that had but recently been laid down. , I was put at digging up the new ground in advance of the levellers, and for four mortal hours did I swing a pickaxe into the soil of Sardinia. The very outrageousnese of my imprisonment and labour made me smile grimly, as I wondered what my fashionable friends in New York would say could they see me ‘doing time* for the prefetto. Dinner time came, and we stopped work long enough to eat the meal that was pre pared for us. After dinner, I, in company with the same ill-smelling ruffian who was my marching partner, was sent some distance away to bring back a supply of cement in a wagon drawn by a small horse, a rugged, stout little animal, that did not seem to feel fatigue. My Sardinian partner and I stood up in the wagon, I doing the driving, while behind us sat a guard with a ritle in his hands, directing me. As we left the main force behind, my heart began to beat violently and my brain to work quickly, for now, I thought, the only opportunity I would get had come. Rounding a bend in the road, we were entirely out of sight of the others. No houses were near. There were no passersby. Surely no time could promise better for my purpose than the present. We travelled in this way perhaps three miles. Then we came to a sort of storehouse or shed, where we stopped. The guard had the key to the shed, and handing it to me, he ordered me to open the door. I did as I was told. Nothing could exceed my humility and meekness at that moment. The stuff used for these roads proved to be a kind of asphalt brought from the coast farther north, and stored in the shed until needed. It was now dry, and lay in piles of broken lumps and blocks.

Tbe guard stood looking on while my companion and I proceeded to carry the stud out to the wagon and load up for our return trip. I had resolved that thia return trio would never be made—at least bv me. I had made several trips to the wagon, putting in lumps of the asphalt, my fellowlabourer keeping close to me, assisting in the work. We passed close in front of the guard, who by the time we had worked a quarter of an hour had lighted his cigarette and had grown less watchful. Suddenly an overwhelming influence seized me, and I struck the blow that 1 had been dreaming of ever since my incarceration. 1 had not the least cause to feel murderously inclined toward the guard, but it was my liberty against his life, and the balance fell my way. I had reached his side with a heavy piece of the asphalt in my hands. Without giving him time to raise his rifle, I lifted the lump and sent it crashing against his skull. With a groan, he fell into a heap on the floor. I sprang to the horse and began rapidly to loosen him from the waggon. But now an enemy arose upon wliom 1 had not counted. My fellow-prisoner, either from a mistaken sense of duty or from a desire to win favour and perhaps pardon for himself, sought to prevent my departure. He sprang upon me, and we had a hand-to-hand tussle, in which it seemed at times as it I was going to get the worst of it. Backward and forward we swayed, now with his hand at mj throat, now with my fist square against his jaw, writhing, twisting, biting and kicking until I finally got a good grip on his throat and nearly strangled him. Seizing him with a mighty effort, I hurled him against the body of the guard, and with a last pull at the straps, freed the horse from hie encumbrance. Leaping upon his back, I banged hie sides with my heels, and away he went to the northward, carrying me toward freedom. But the Sardinian prisoner was nob yet beaten. I heard the crack of the guard's rifle behind me, and felt a stinging sensation in the back. I was shot. The immediate result of the wound was to urge me to redouble my efforts to get away. The little horse pounded the ground as he did all in hie power to aid me. Still I belaboured him with my heels to increase his speed. I felt the warm blood oozing down my back, and began to feel weak and dizzy. Even though I had nob been hit in a vital spot, 1 knew that tbe loss of blood would finish mo unless I was able soon to stay it. But to halt now would be death anyhow, and I kept on. The rifle was fired again, but this time the distance was too great for the Sardinian’s aim, and I was not touched. On, on we went, my little horse and I, past woods and past farms, until I saw the road across the valley, which I had seen from my prison window, and which had seemed to lead to places of refuge in the mountains. I was now so weak from the loss of blood that I was swaying from side to side, and almost blinded by dizziness. I clung desperately to the horse until we had crossed the valley, and had reached the verge of the forest and the upward curve of the mountain road. So far as I knew, I was not yet pursued. Suddenly my horse stumbled and fell. My weakness was now so great that my hands refused to cling ; my legs were as those of a man paralyzed. I rolled from the animal's back and fell with a thud by the wayside. Relieved of hie burden, the horse recovered hie footing and plunged forward out of sight. I was stunned by the fall. Many bright lights seemed to play before my eyes. Music sounded in my eare. X remembered

nothing of my imprisonment or my escape. I was in another world, then all was blank; 1 knew nothing. How long I lay thus Ido not know. It could not have been iong, for the alaim must have been given and pursue™ would be after me. I became conscious of a burning sensation in my throat, then an excruciating pain in my head, then another in my back ; my arms and legs tingled as if filled with needles. I felt something pressed to my lips, and again the burning in my throat. My mind grew calmer. I opened my eyes. Vision had returned to me. Bending over me was a monk. He was clad in a long black gown or cassock, and strings of beads hung around his neck and from his waist. His broad brimmed black hat had fallen, and his closely shaven head glistened in the sunlight. He wore large, coloured glasses, through which he peered tn a peculiar fashion, as if he was nearsighted. A book, which he had perhaps been reading, hung suspended by hie side. Near by stood a patient mule, which he had no doubt been riding. * You are wounded, son,' he said, in a voice that was soft and almost womanly. ‘Yes, fa'her,’ I replied, my own voice coming only in a whisper. * I have been shot.’ The monk’s face was vety pale—unnaturally white, I thought. He looked at me through hie goggles a moment before answering. ‘You are wounded in the back, son,’ he said. *ls it the work of an assassin ’’ * I will tell you the truth, father,’ I said, weakly. * I am a prisoner of the State. The brother of the prefetto was murdered. 1 was accused of the murder, and though I knew nothing about it. I was convicted. I was at work on the public road to day and escaped. A fellow prisoner fired at me with the guard’s rifle and Hounded me. They will be after me soon.’ * Alas, son ! Thia is a bad business.’ The monk, as he said this, glanced nervously around, as if apprehensive of detection in thus succouring a prisoner of State who had escaped. *Do not leave me here, father,’ I whispered. *I am innocent of murder. I swear it.’ The monk seemed to hesitate a moment. * I will not leave you,’ he muttered. ‘I

will not leave you. But your wound must be bound. The bleeding must be checked. ‘There is no time to do it here,* 1 said. •Get me away—anywhere out of sight. I can stand it.' * Take another swallow of this good brandy,’he said, again putting the welcome flask to my lips. 1 took a lung pull, and felt much invigorated thereby. The monk put hie hands under me and lifted mo gently from the ground. I seemed to be but a child in his arms. Holding me across the back of his mule, he easily mounted, and, speaking to the animal, we were soon moving up the mountain side. Nothing was said by either of us during the ride. In fact, I was so much hurt by the slight jolting motion ot the mule that my dizziness and weakness came on again, and it seemed as if the bleeding from my wound had broken out afresh. We did not travel far in this way—perhaps a quarter of a mile. Then we had come to a thick portion of the forest, and we were in a rugged mountain region. The monk had been peering from side to side, as if in search of something, and suddenly halted hie mule before a tall, white-barked tree that stood near the edge of the road. *1 thought I knew the place,’ he murmured to himself. ‘That is certainly the tree.’ Sliding from the saddle to ground, the monk took me in his arms and carried me into the forest. He spoke to his mule, and the animal followed him. He carried me carefully over rocks and fallen trees and through seemingly impassable places. He seemed to know fully every foot of the uneven ground and to be looking for some particular spot. *Ah 1’ he exclaimed at last. *lt is here. The soldiers of the prefetto will have work to find you here.’ * And you will not betray me, father?’ I asked. •Nay. I know full well the ease with which the prefetto imprisons falsely. You are safe here. And you will be fed.’ * I thank you, father,’ I said, in gratitude. We had entered a grotto. The air inside was cool and sweet. I could hear the murmur and ripple of a spring and mountain stream near by. I felt a sense of rest and security, and my trust in the monk was firm.

The grotto was a large one, lighted by the opening, and farther in by a small hole in the roof, which was nearly covered with vines. The rocks inside were bare and white. It was a maible hall in verity. Scattered around were various articles, which indicated that once this grotto had been inhabited. Here was a drinking cup, carefully pUced on a ledge of rock near the bubbling spring. In another spot stood a little stove, upon which the former occu pant, perhaps, cooked his meals. And in another place, where the rock was flat and projecting some hve feet from the wall, a pile of furs was laid, as if for a couch or bed. Upon this I was laid by the monk, who at once began to relieve me of my clothing and to dress my wound. I was perfectly conscious when he began. I felt his pre* sence, though he said but little. But there came a reaction, and I felt myself sinking gradually into a dreamy state. I felt a burning sensation in my head. I lost the power of sight. I was keenly athirst, and called incessantly for water, which w r as given me. I felt that I was dying. No longer was I in the grotto with the monk. I was in New York, sitting in the window of the Lotus Club chatting gaily with the major and Dilkins. I was enjoying a supper at Delmonico's, with the wellknown waiter bending over me to listen to mv orders, the bright e'ectric lights around me, groups of handsome men and beautiful women laughing and talking at the different ables, and the major sitting opposite, telling me the latest story of high life. I was even at times plung ng through the paths in Central Park on my splendid horse, and the gay equipages that I passed, the groups of riders from the schools near the Grand Circus, the grey-coaled park police, all were as natural as if they were not the phantasmagoria of a brain fever. I was now at the circus and gazing with wonder and admiration at Nita Barlotti, the trapeze queen, ami at Maubikeck, the lion tamer, in their respective acts. Then the visit to Ralph Graviscourt’s rooms and the discovery ot the photograph was as vivid in my mind as on the day it actually occurred. And again the circus, the blazing rope, the danger that Barlotti was in, the efforts of the lion*tamer and myself to save her.

And so on, 1 lived over and over again the stirring scenes of my last days in New York, and the departure of Maubikeck and my-elf on the steamer. And then the accident ; Maubikeck rushing into my room and carrying ine on deck; the scene at the rail ; my departure in the small boat—a.l were vivid and real to me again. But instead of the darkness and the fog that covered everything and obscured my vision, I saw, surrounded by blazing light that seemed to come from heaven, the c dm, silent figure of Maubikeck, standing with folded arms amid a score of frightened, demented creatures, waiting for the death that was inevitable. And I saw the vessel lurch and go down, still with the silent figure at the rail. Down, down she went—in a moment more all would be lost—now all wore down. But no ! The vessel, indeed, had sunk. And there, standing on top of a wave, still in the glare of the light from heaven, stood Maubikeck, and above him, in red letters, seemingly of fire floating in the air, 1 saw the words, * If you are saved and I am not, nave Nita from Maligni.’ The flame and the white light went out together, and I was in Italy bargaining with Signor Branderi for a guide and interpreter to go with me to the Island of Sardinia. I was vaguely conscious of a lapse of time as I lived over these scenes. I seemed to feet that some one was near me. At times I thought I heard my name called out in the darkness that surrounded me, and I thought I replied. But I knew nothing real There was nothing of actual life about me. After a time I seemed to feel that my body was cold and like stone, and my soul was free. It soared away and mingled with other white-robed figures, all bathed in a light like that which had streamed upon Maub keck on the sinking steamer. And Maubikeck was there, only instead of being a soul, I ke myself, having left the clay behind, he was Maubikeck, as I had known him, still in his magnificent flesh form, and as magnificent in the heavenly surroundings as he had been among earthly scenes And he stretched forth his bund to me. and said : • You have done well, Wilberton. Be not despairing, for out of your trouble shall come happiness. I have seen your ellorts

to rescue her whom I love, and for thia you shall have happiness upon And my soul came back into my body of clay and warmed it. Again I fancied I heard the rippling of a stream. Again I thought that marble walls surrounded me. At first it seemed that I was in a tomb, but gradually consciousness came to me and I awoke. The bed of furs was my couch ; the grotto walls were above me. An odour of something came to my nostrils faintly. I turned my head. A fire was burning in the little stove. By it, a cigarette in his mouth, holding something over the coals, sat Mutterelli. I e-sayed to speak. Only a whistling sound came from my lipa. Mutterelli rose and looked at me. • All right, signor,’ he said, in the calm voice of a man who knew what he was doing and had been going it a long time. •It will be ready in a minute. A bit of toast and a sip of wine will do you good. Keep still. You are all right, signor.’ Vaguely I wondered, and dimly I realised that I must have been very ill. But where was the monk ? And how came Mutterelli here where the monk said none could find me? Yet the monk had said that I would be cared for and fed, and his words were true. • Mutterelli!’ I whimpered. •Signori You know me!’ he cried. • Jesus be praised ! You have long been near death, but now you will be restored to life. Ah signor ! How’s that?’ As he said this, he put a wooden board before me, upon which was a glass of wine and a bit of white breast of chicken and a slice of toast. Tenderly propping me up in his arms so that I could eat, he fed me, and nothing that 1 had ever eaten in Delmonico's tasted half so good os that dainty morsol in that hour of my return to earth. •Ah!’ I said. • That was good, Mutterelli.’ •Sleep will be better, signor. You have had a hot fight and need rest. Sleep on. Do not think or trouble about anything. You are safe, and when Mutterelli tells you so, you know it is true.’ With this he left me and went out of the grotto, perhaps to avoid my questioning. I closed my eyes and a delicious sense of rest stole over me, and I fell asleep. I slept long and sweetly, and awoke much refreshed. Feeling strong, I raised myself on my elbow and looked about. Squatting on a low stool near the opening of the grotto was Mutterelli, smoking the inevitable cigarette, calmly paring some potatoes the expression of his face being one of utter content and placid happiness. CHAPTER XVIII. •Mutterelli!' I said in a whisper, which was all the voice I could raise. Mutterelli laid down his knife and came toward me. ‘ You called, signor,’ he said. • Where did you come from, Mutterelli ?' He looked at me contemplatively without replying. • Where is the monk ?’ I asked, without waiting for a reply to my former question. Mutterelli put his finger to his lips. ‘You are not to talk, signor,’ he said. • Be patient, and when you are stronger we will speak of it. You have been very ill, signor.' • How long have I been in the grotto, Mutterelli?’ lacked. •Sixteen days, signor.’ I sank back on my fur couch, overcome by a sense of weakness and utter helplessness. Sixteen days. And it seemed as though it was but an hour since the monk had carried me into the grotto, and had set about dressing my wound. And the change from the monk to Mutterelli was so strange, so unexpected. Yet Mutterelli was calm, and seemed perfectly at homein this strange place. When he had replied to my last question, he offered me a glass of wine, which I drank. Then be turned and walked out of the grotto, I remembered that he had done this when I first saw and recognized him, and realised that this was his method of enforcing silence. So alone I lay, and in my weakness wondered what chain of circumstances had led Mutterelli to the grotto. In about an hour Mutterelli returned. He placidly went about the grotto preparing a meal. He lighted a fire in the little stove. He got water from the spring in shining tins, which were evidently new. He made coffee. He put potatoes to boil in an iron pot. He cooked some chops which were of the mouflon or native sheep. He poached eggs. During all of which he sooke never a word to me, who lay on my side gazing at him with wondering eyes. • Now,’ he ejaculated, when everything was done to his satisfaction. • You have prepared quite a banquet, Mutterelli,’ I said. • Yes, signor.’ He drew a rough table, evidently made of the local wood by the for mer occupant of the grotto, near to my bed, and laid upon it dishes for two. I was agreeab y surprised at this, for with my returning

strength my appetite was good. The aroma of Mutterelli’e coffee refreshed and invigorated me. The odour of tho chops and the sight of the golden yolk of the poached eggs prod used in me a tierce desire to get at them and satisfy my hunger. Mutterelli propped me up in a half sitting posture, and fixed my dinner on a plate. • Now, signor,' he said, • if you are hungry eat.* And I did eat. With every mouthful I seemed to bo putting new lite and strength into my body. How good it all was. Even the potatoes were flaky and white. It was a feast fit for the gods. Yet my guide and present nurse would not allow me to eat all I wanted. No doubt I had all that was good for me, but it seemed as if I could go on eating all day. But Mutterelli knew too much to allow me to over feed. • You have had enough, signor,’ he said. • What I I have just begun.’ • No. You have eaten plenty. You are not strong enough, signor. By to morrow you may e <t more ; the > the next day more. In a week 1 will not objsct if you eat a whole mouflon.’ He cleared away the table, and took the dishes outside of the grotto. In a few minutes he brought them bnck, clean and dripping, aud set them on edge to dry. Then he slowly rolled a cigarette in hie fingers and lighted it. He drew a stool near my bed and sat down. * • How do you feel, signor f he asked. • 1 feel much better,’l replied. ‘That dinner of yours just made a new man of me.’ And indeed my voice was much stronger, and proved the truth of my words. Mutterelli was evidently going to talk, so I waited patiently for him to begin. •You have been very sck, signor,’ he said finally. ‘lt is now sixteen days since you came here.’ • Yes,’ I replied ; • so you told me before. But how many days is it since you came here ?’ ‘Sixteen, signor,’ he replied ca’mly. ‘You followed me?’ •Yes, signor. I was told where to find you.’ ‘ Then my hiding place is known !’ I said. ‘Yes, signor. Your hiding-place is known to me, and to the monk who brought you here. That is all.’ • And you saw the monk ? You must have seen him, for he only could tell you where to find me.’ •Yes, signor, I saw the monk. The alarm was given after you escaped, and I hoard it. lat once slipped away, and began looking for you. Others were looking for you, signor, in less friendly spirit than was Mutterelli. The prefMo has his men out looking for you, signor. They went out the day you escaped, and they are out yet. They will stay out, too, for all they wi 1 find you.’ • But I don’t understand yet how the monk happened to pick you out to trust above all others. Did you know him, or he you ?’ Mutterelli fumbled his cigarette. • Yes, signor. I had seen the mnnkin Genoa, and he has seen me here. He is a good monk, signor. When 1 met him I asked him if he had seen a prisoner running away. He looked at me closely and recognised me. Then he said he had not seen a prisoner running away, but he knew where there was a wounded man who needed careful nursing, and he thought this wounded man had been a prisoner and had run away. That is the way he does things,, that monk. He was always mysterious like that.’ • But if he trusted you merely because he knew you, he will surely trust others. He must knew plenty of others in .Sardinia.’ Mutterelli mused a second. •Yes, signor, he knows plenty in Sardinia, but he trusts only me. I alone have his confidence. The monk and I belong to the same secret society, signor, though I am but a poor member. See, signor?’ • What 1’ 1 replied. • A monk a member of a secret society. I- it possible ?’ ‘ Yes, signor, in Sardinia.’ He opened his jacket, and under it was a peculiar vest of white silk, upon which were embroiderrd some symbols in gold. ‘ The monk and I are brothers in this,' said Mutterelli, tapping the gold insignia. ‘ And where is this kind monk now ?' I asked. *1 must have opportunity to express my gratitude in a suitable manner. He saved my life, Mutterelli —he and you.’ Mutterelli shrugged his shoulders. • It is hard to say where he is now, signor. He will be around before you leave here. He has visited you often.’ ‘ What is his name, Mutterelli?' ‘He is Brother Michael, signor, of the Order of Jesuits. Ho is high in favour with the general of the order, signor, and travels much, doing missionary work,’ • And the monks at the Monastery of The Saints? To what order do they belong ?’ ‘They are Jesuits, signor,' replied Mutterelli.

The exertion of talking bad been severe, and 1 telt that I must stop. ‘ You are weary, signor,’ raid Mutterelli. • You have talked too much. You must rest. I will leave you.’ He sauntered toward the entrance of the grotto, and 1 saw him pause long enough to twist the end of another cigarette and light it. Then he disappeared through the marble arch. I lay back on my furs, wondering. Mutterelli had answered all my questions in a straightforward manner, yet I felt an uneasiness as to the truth of what he had raid. There was, in my mind, a vague yet rapidly growing conviction that Mutterelli and the monk wero one and the same. I knew that Mutterelli was a master hand at disguising. The timely meeting between the monk and Mutterelli ; the implicit confidence which the monk reposed in Mutterelli, who, I knew, had a price—all these things, as I thought them over, convinced me that Mutterelli was Brother Michael, and Brother Michael was Mutterelli. So far he had done well. But how was I ever to get away from Sardinia, and how was I going to continue my efforts to restore Nita Barlotti to the sphere in life to which I knew she belonged ? CHAPTER XIX. • M UTTERELU, I want to ask you a ques tion.' It was the second day of my renewed life and I felt much stronger, and had been watching Mutterelli with a feeling of amusement as he puttered around, doing this and that for his own comfort and mine. * Ask it, signor,’ he replied, waving a gun-cleaner at me. He had just sat down to clean a rifle which, I suppose, he used to shoot the mouflon and other game upon which we were feeding. ‘There is no law in the grotto to compel me to answer it if I don’t want to.’ * No,’ I said. • But there is no reason why you should not tell me this, if you know. Have you any idea who really killed Pacho Maligni?’ Everything dropped from Mutterelli’s hands, and he stared at me, seemingly overcome with surprise. * Who killed—who—who killed Maligni? What is that, signor? Oh, yee, I forgot. No, signor, 1 do not know who killed Maligni.’ Something in his looks made me chink that his reply-was prompted by an idea that my mind had not fully returned to me, and that I did not remember the killing of Maligni. ‘What have you forgotten? I don’t know who killed him. I know 1 did not. I never killed anybody, unless it may be that poor devil of a guard whose head I smashed with a lump of asphalt.’ * You didn’t kill the guard,’ said Mutterelli. ‘He was only stunned.’ I was rejoiced to hear this My greatest —in fact, my only—regret in the whole business had been the unpleasant necessity of silencing that guard. •But Maligni? exclaimed Mutterelli. • Yon did not kill him ?’ ‘ No,' I replied ‘ I swear it. I did not even see him struck. I was outside of the villa making my way to the gate with Nita Barlotti, when I heard him cry out and heard the alarm given. I saw him when I was on the balcony, but he got up from hie chair and left the room. The next time I saw'him, he was lying dead. lam as much in the dark about it as any one.' Mutterelli whistled. ‘This is news to me, signor. I thought, of course, you killed Maligni. But if you did not, then who the deuce did ?’ ‘ I do >’t know. That is what I want to know.' ‘You shall know, signor,’ said Mutterelli, and his jaw snapped. ‘Nearly a month has been wasted, in which, perhaps, I could have run the murderer down and set you free. But I will do it yet, signor. Do not fear. I will know who the murderer of Maligni is in less than sixteen days more.' ‘Find him,' I said, ‘and the twenty-five thousand lire that I promised you shall be doubled.’ *Ah I Thank'you, signor. Mutterelli is faithful, but he is poor. Therefore he is grateful. 1 must see Brother Michael today. If I can find him.’ The last sentence seemed to be an afterthought. My own opinion was that if the wily Mutterelli wanted to see Brother Michael he would not need to go far—a mirror would show him the Jesuit’s face. That afternoon Mutterelli went away and did not leturn until long intn the night. When he did come in, he breathed heavily, and seemed like a man who bad been drinking much wine * You have found gay companions, Mutterelli,’ I said. He looked at me solemnly, his face being illumined by the candle he held unsteadily and his eyes blinking wisely. * Yes, signor,' he said, struggling desperately with his voice. * Brother Michael and

I had much to e»y to each other. But it id too late for patients like you to be talking. Go to sleep. * 1 could get no more out of him, and I lay there in silence watching him, as in the dim light of the candle he moved about preparing to go to bed. In a far corner of the grotto, upon some boards laid lengthwise, some furs like tho.-e on which I lay had been placed. Upon this rude couch Mutterelli stretchod himself and was soon snoring away as if he was reposing on the softest bed in Ids probably comfortable home in Genoa. And as I thought of it I laughed softly to myself. It was probably a strange place for Mutterelli to be sleeping. Yet, more than that, the thought came to me that it was a strange couch for a monk. And laughing again at Mutterelli’s clumsy attempts to deceive me, 1 fell asleep. The days passed slowly after thia, yet I mended rapidly. As often as needful Mutterelli dressed my wound, and my returning strength brought renewed ambition and stronger determination to carry to a successful issue the purposes that had brought me to Sardinia. But I could get nothing out of Mutterelli. As my strength increased his absences from the grotto grew longer, until at times he would be away for a day and a night at a stretch, in which intervals of his absences I would turn cook and supply myself with viands. And as Mutterelli’s absences grew longer, his communicativeness grew less. I plied him with questions about the monk and about the pretetto and about Nita Barlotti, but all I got, day after day, were reiterated cautious about leaving the grotto and vague and misty sentences about great plans being laid for my benefit by Mutterelli and ‘Brother Michael.* Nita Barlotti was still at the country residence of the prefetto, and Mutterelli informed me that it was rumoured that she would soon become the bride of the Count di Pordino. I could not see how or wherein the count was any improvement over Pacho Maligni, but confined as I was to the grotto, I was, of course, powerless then to do anything in her behalf. And Mutterelli partially reassured me by saying that the count would not be allowed to wed her, for when he and Brother Michael had got my aflairs straightened out, they would attend to the case of the Count di Pordino and his proposed marriage All this was pacifying and almost satisfying in the early days of my convalescence, when 1 was too weak to do anything but lie upon my bed of furs and watch Mutterelli and listen to hie remarks, with mingled doubt and admiration. But there came a day when I was no longer weak, and when the blood, full of life, rushing through my body, gave me vigour and a de-ire to go outside again into the world and see for myself what was going on, and do for myself what I had become convinced no one else would be able to do for me.

It was on one of these days when Mutterelli was away that the spirit of unrest seized me, and I grew impatient and nervous at my enfoiced idleness. Mutterelli, with his usual regard for my comfort, had procured in soihe way a supply of good cigars, and Isat on my bed, with my back against the perpendicular wall of marble, smoking one of these. If I had had anything to read, perhaps I would have felt easier ; but my stock of literature was limited 10 a copy of the Paris edition of a New York paper, now several weeks old, which Mutterelli had become in some way possessed of. I had read this from title page to the last advertisement about a dozen times and knew it by heart. Slipping from my couch I meandered uneasily around the grotto, grumbling inwardly at the unpleasant delay in my plans and thinking hard, trying to help myself out nf my present difficulty. I had not examined the grotto very carefully before, and I was surprised, when approaching the entrance in my aimless ramble, to see letters carved in the rock away to the right of the arch. Stepping to this spot, 1 read the words easily, so deeply and evenly were they cut into the marble: ‘HENRY THORLANE I WILL AVKNOE. The same words and in the same form as I had lound them in the cell in the Torre dell Elefante. Henry Thorlane, then, was no doubt the former occupant of the cave. But now a puzzling question arose : When could he have carved those letters in the grotto ’ Previous to his arrest he would, for all I knew, taking Mutterelli’s story into the matter, have no cause for vengeance. And Mutterelli had said that he was in the monastery, from which there could be no escape, Yet there was hie name and his motto —his war cry—carved in letters that would Inst for centuries, in the marble rock before me. One of two things was certain. Mutterelli did not know all thestory before Thorlane's arrest, or he did not know what had happened afterward. It was possible that Thorlane had escaped, made his homo in the grotto, and had been captured again. Or-and as I thought this, my heart stood still a second—what if Mutterelli was right and Thotlane had been put in the monastery and had gained the confidence of the superior and had joined the order unknown to the prefetto dr anybody outside the Jesuit circle inside the monastery walls. And if so, then, perhaps Mutterelli was Mutterelli and no one e se, and the monk who had rescued me was Henry Thorlane. This would account for his knowledge of the place, and would place the stories of Mutterelli regarding his sharein the matter, the meeting with the monk and the recognition, more in the light of truth.

Still pondering upon this, 1 began to look still farther for evidences of Henry Thorlane’s occupancy. Groping about in corners and around ledges I bruised my finger nails feeling for more carved letters. I found no more letters, but I did find a trap door. My fingers came in contact with an iron ring. I knew it must have been placed there tor a purpose. I pulled it. It did not move, and I did net dare exert my strength for fear of reopening the wound in my back. I lighted a candle, for the ring was in a dark portion of the grotto, and closely examined the place. I found that the ring was fastened to a wooden cover, which was held in place by two large pieces of rock which were laid upon it. These I rolled away, and the trap door came up easily. The opening thus made led into a sma I, cellar-like hole, not deep enough to admit a person standing erect, but quite large enough for a man to crawl into if pursued, and by lying on the floor, make discovery almost impossible. And lying on the floor was a wooden box or cheap kind of tiunk. I managed to get this out, and openedit. It contained clothing of various kinds, masks, beards, wigs, in fact, everything that was needed for a complete disguise. And as I examined this most fortunate find, I chuckled aloud, for a most desperate scheme had come into my head, and with the discovery of the trunk of clothing, my impatience to be up and doing was doubled, tripled, quadrupled. I would be free ! And Nita Barlotti should at last know who she was, and be placed in possession of her own. ( To be Continued. )