“There lies your road,” he said, “do not let anyone either follow or converse with you.” And with a warm hand-clasp the two young men parted.

  Salvato glanced around, the road seemed deserted, the tempest was not quite over, for, though the rain had ceased, there were constant flashes of lightning and mutterings of thunder from all parts of the heavens. As he passed the darkest corner of the palace of Queen Joanna he thought he saw the outline of a man against the wall, but, deciding to take no notice, he walked steadily on.

  Twenty paces further he stopped and looked round, he had not been mistaken, a man was crossing the road, seemingly wishing to keep on his left. Ten paces further he thought he distinguished the head of a man above the wall, which here served as a sort of parapet, it promptly disappeared; Hector leant over the wall, but could see no one, only a garden, the trees in which rose to the height of the wall.

  Meanwhile, the other man had come up, and was now walking even with him. Salvato pretended to approach him, carefully watching the place where he had seen the head. A flash of lightning shewed a man stepping over the wall and turning, like himself, towards Mergellina.

  Salvato put his hand to his belt, assured himself that his pistols were safe, and continued on his way, the two men keeping near him, one a little in advance on his left, the other a little behind on his right. At a short distance they found two fellows occupying the middle of the road, apparently quarrelling, with the discordant cries and gestures peculiar to the lowest classes of Naples.

  On the right was the lonely sea, on the left a long garden wall with a shuttered house behind it. Orange trees and a splendid palm waved above.

  Salvato cocked his pistols under his cloak, and, divining a plot when he saw the men did not move, walked straight up to them.

  Suddenly two confederates sprang from the shelter of a dark door in the garden wall, and rushed at Salvato from behind. As they did so he shot down the first two men, and having killed one and wounded the other, he unfastened his cloak and flung it away. Turning upon the new assailants, he laid open the face of one with a blow of his sword, and with a sharp thrust severely wounded the other. Then something came hissing toward him, and he felt a sharp pain in the right side of his chest. He seized the knife with his left hand, drew it out, staggered a few feet back, feeling as if the earth were giving way under him. He found himself up against the wall, which seemed to be receding like the ground. A flash of lightning which lit up the sky appeared the colour of blood, he stretched out his arms, let go his sword, and sank down insensible. In his last conscious moment he seemed to see a man advancing upon him and endeavoured to repulse him; then everything vanished, and he uttered a sigh which seemed to be his last.

  CHAPTER III.

  THE HOUSE OF THE PALM TREE.

  ON the descent from Pausilippo between the Royal Casino and the Lion’s Fountain, stands the house known as The House of the Palm Tree, from an unusually fine specimen of these graceful and feathery trees, so tall as to overtop a galaxy of golden oranges by at least two-thirds of its height. It was the ancestral home of the Chevalier di San Felice.

  The Chevalier, no longer young, was a man of charming manners, combined with the gentleness and simplicity which often accompanies deep learning. His tastes were many and varied, but were chiefly those of a naturalist and philosopher, a dreamer, who in the study of Nature passed from the visible and material world to the invisible and spiritual one, beholding the Eternal, not in the tempest of Elijah, nor in the burning bush of Moses, but in the Majestic Serenity of the Eternal Love, which embraces the whole universe.

  Educated at the college dei Nobili, founded by Charles III., San Felice’s chief friend and fellow-pupil was the Prince Joseph Caramanico — whose adventures and distinguished career towards the end of the eighteenth century are not yet forgotten. He was then not only a prince, but a charming and affectionate boy, and, later, a charming man full of honour and loyalty.

  In this friendship the part played by the Chevalier was that of Pylades. His Orestes, it must be confessed, was but an idle scholar, who nevertheless obtained quite as many prizes as his industrious friend, and although his tutors either did not know or did not choose to know the secret of his success, Caramanico was very well aware of it himself, and not ungrateful. When they left college he entered the army while San Felice devoted himself to science. Caramanico procured him an admission to the Order of Knights of Malta, dispensing with the vows, and further secured him an abbey with an income of 2,000 ducats, which, in addition to his own small private fortune, was wealth for a man of San Felice’s simple tastes.

  About 1783, Caramanico, who had long been Prime Minister of Naples and prime favourite of the Queen, but who, it was whispered, had been undermined by the intrigues of Acton, appeared one evening unannounced at the House of the Palm Tree. He found San Felice in the garden engaged in catching fireflies, being anxious to study the light they gave. He received the Prince with delight, but the latter appeared sad and pre-occupied. They sat down under the palm, and, after a short silence:

  “My friend,” said the Prince, “I come to say farewell, perhaps for ever. I can fight no longer. I should probably lose my honour in the conflict and certainly my life. To-day the Queen is entirely governed by this intriguing Irishman, who, I believe, will ruin Naples. Well, if the throne is to fall, I, at least, will have no hand in it. I go.”

  “And whither?” enquired San Felice. “I have accepted the Embassy at London, it is at least an honourable exile. I take my wife and family, but there is one whom I cannot take and I hope to leave her in your care.”

  “Her!” said the philosopher in evident dismay. Caramanico smiled. “Be not anxious,” he said, “she is not a woman, only a little child.” San Felice breathed again; the Prince continued: “In the midst of my troubles I found consolation in the love of a woman. An angel from Heaven, she has returned whence she came, but she has left me a little daughter now five years old. I cannot openly acknowledge her, and the Queen must not know of her existence. I love her dearly, but I fear she has been born under an unlucky star, and I trust to you to care for her. I want to provide for her. Here is a bond for 50,000 ducats which you will invest for her, and which, left to accumulate, will in fourteen or fifteen years have doubled itself; I ask you, meanwhile, to provide for Her board and suitable education, and when she comes of age or marries you are to repay yourself.’’

  “You do not love me as I thought,” said San Felice, somewhat hurt by this latter stipulation.

  “I love you more than any other man in the world, and I am leaving you the only piece of myself which has remained pure and unbroken.”

  “Listen to me,” said San Felice, “I am a lonely man, almost without friends. I am not unhappy with this great book of Nature spread before me, but I do not care for one thing more than another, and I have no one to love me. Let me have your child here, I will love her and care for her, and perhaps she will understand and love me a little in return. The air here is splendid, there is a garden with oranges and butterflies, she will grow tall and graceful like this palm tree. Say, will you let your child come to me?”

  Caramanico looked at him with tears in his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said, “take my child; yes, she will love you. But promise that you will speak of me every day, and try that next to yourself she shall love me better than all else. Adieu, best of friends,” said the Prince rising, “you have given me the only happiness, the one consolation possible in this world.”

  The next day the Prince left for London, and the little Luisa and her attendants were duly installed in the House of the Palm Tree where she led a tranquil and happy life. San Felice found a new and delightful pleasure in superintending her education and watching the development of both body and mind. Caramanico, in 1790, exchanged the Embassy of London for that of Paris, but when the Two Sicilies sent troops against France, he desired to be recalled. Acton, not wishing for his presence at Naples, sent him as Viceroy to Sicily, where his excellent government formed a great contrast to the reign of terror under Acton at Naples. The Neapolitans murmured loudly, and whispered that the Queen herself, were it not for her false pride, would gladly replace Acton by Caramanico. One day the Chevalier received the following letter:

  “My friend,

  “I know not the cause, unless it be poison, but in the last ten days my hair has become grey, my teeth are loose, I am hopelessly languid and depressed. Bring Luisa here, start at once, and may you arrive in time to see me again!”

  Luisa was now a beautiful girl of nineteen, and had never seen her father since he entrusted her to San Felice, who had religiously carried out his promise, and taken care that joint letters were written to the Prince every fortnight. He hastened at once to the harbour and finding a small passenger boat on the point of returning empty to Sicily, immediately engaged it for a whole month. On the third day they landed at Palermo.

  The whole town appeared to be in mourning, they passed a church which was hung with black and where the priests recited the prayers for the dying.

  “What is happening?” said San Felice to a poor fisherman at the door, “we have just come from Naples.”

  “Our father is dying,” said the man, and kneeling on the steps he prayed aloud that his own life might be taken and the beloved viceroy spared.

  At first they were refused admission to the palace, but on San Felice naming himself, the Prince’s valet rushed forward and at once took them to his master, whose eyes lit up with delight at seeing them, but who was clearly in the last stage of exhaustion. San Felice left Luisa alone with her father, who questioned her closely, and finding that she had as yet seen no one who had made any impression on her heart, asked if she would marry San Felice. She replied in the affirmative, and when San Felice returned, the Prince exclaimed joyfully: “She consents, my friend! all is well, she consents!” Luisa extended her hand towards the Chevalier.

  “But to what is she consenting?” asked the latter gently.

  “My father says he can die in peace if you will marry me. I have answered for myself.”

  If Luisa had been startled by the sudden proposal, the Chevalier was even more so. He looked at them both in astonishment.

  “But it is impossible,” he said, though the look which he cast on Luisa contradicted his words.

  “Why impossible?” asked the Prince.

  “Only look at us both. She stands on the threshold of life, radiant in youth and beauty, ignorant of love — yes, but will she remain ignorant? I am forty-eight, my hair is turning grey, my frame bowed with study. You must see the thing is impossible. Think no more of it, Caramanico, in arranging for our happiness you will only bring misery to us both. One day she will really love — but it will not be me.”

  “Then,” said Luisa, “as I wish to obey you, my father, I will never marry.”

  The Prince’s head sunk on his breast and a tear fell on Luisa’s hand. She silently pointed it out to the Chevalier.

  “Since, then, you both desire this,” said San Felice, “which I also both desire and dread more than anything in the world, I also consent — on one condition.”

  “What is that?” asked the Prince.

  “The marriage is not to take place for a year during which Luisa must see the world she has not seen and learn to know the young people she has not known. If at the end of the year she still cares for no one and says: ‘In my father’s name, my friend, fulfil your promise,’ I shall then have no further objection to make. But I have yet something to say, Giuseppe, listen. I believe in the purity and the chastity of this child as I should believe in an angel, — but — she is a woman, she may fail. — In such a case, I swear on this crucifix that I will have no words for the sin but those of mercy and pardon, and may everlasting punishment overtake me if I act otherwise. Give me your hand, Luisa.”

  Caramanico took the crucifix and held it out to them. They held it in a joint clasp. “Caramanico,” said San Felice, “I swear to you on this crucifix that this day year, if Luisa still thinks as she does now, she shall be my wife. And now, my friend, die in peace! I keep my oaths.”

  Caramanico died the following night.

  Palermo was sunk in the deepest mourning; the funeral which took place at night was magnificent. The cathedral blazed with torches and tapers, and — strange relic of the Dark Ages — the Prince’s horses were not allowed to survive their master. The ceremony over, the last torch was extinguished, and, silent as a procession of phantoms, the vast crowd dispersed in the dark and silent streets, where not a glimmer of light could be seen, a whole city plunged into darkness under the wings of Death. On the following day San Felice and Luisa re-embarked for Naples.

  The first three months passed in the usual quietude, then San Felice bought the most elegant carriage and finest horses he could procure, engaged more servants, and shewed himself with Luisa every day on the fashionable promenades of Naples. The nearest house to his own, only separated by a slight garden barrier, belonged to the Duchess Fusco, whose family had always been intimate with his own. She was a widow and very wealthy, some ten years older than Luisa, and she had hitherto declined all invitations on the plea of preferring a retired life. She now, however, accepted them, and the two soon became intimate friends. But to all admirers of the other sex Luisa remained as adamant; rejecting the distinction offered by the Prince Moliterno, the elegance and wit of Rocca-Romana, and the wealth of Andrew Baker. The year of probation ended, she and San Felice were married very quietly, in the presence of the Prince Francis, who had with difficulty induced San Felice to become his librarian, and who wished therefore, to shew his appreciation of the fact.

  The marriage concluded, Luisa only asked to reduce the household to its former footing. The extra servants with the one exception of her own maid, Nina, were dismissed, the carriage and horses sold, and the old governess retired with a pension to her beloved Portici. Of all the worldly brilliance which had surrounded Luisa during the last nine months, the only remaining trace was her intimacy with the Duchess Fusco. This, San Felice highly approved, and the old door communicating between the two mansions was re-opened so that their intercourse was perfectly unrestrained. A year passed in perfect happiness, then some imprudent remarks of the Duchess concerning Lady Hamilton were reported to the Queen, and the Duchess received an intimation from the police that her health would benefit by a residence on her country estates. One of her friends, who had not only spoken, but, what was worse, had written inadvisably, shared her exile. They departed for the Basilicata, leaving the keys of the house with Luisa.

  Luisa’s solitude now became extreme, for the Prince Royal, interested by his librarian’s knowledge and conversation, made more and more demands upon San Felice’s time. She became, not unhappy, she wanted nothing that she had not got, but languid, and absorbed in aimless dreams of the unknown. One day, when more than ever lost in reverie, her foster-brother, known as “Michael the Fool,” not on account of lack of wit, but because of his numerous escapades, came to see her. Though he wore the white drawers and the red cap of the ordinary Neapolitan fisherman, yet the tie between them was a very real one, as is the case with most primitive peoples, and permitted him, unrebuked, to address her as if she had been his actual sister in his own rank of life. He had told her of the wonderful predictions of an old Albanian gipsy, and with a sort of vague desire to hear something of the future even if she did not believe it, Luisa, knowing that her husband would be detained that evening by the Nelson festivities, asked him to bring old Nanno to see her that very night. Michael brought her accordingly, but the old woman had only time to inform Luisa that her fate was linked with that of a man over whom at that moment some great danger was impending, when in the street, immediately outside, they heard two pistol shots, succeeded by cries, oaths, then the clashing of swords.

  “Madame,” cried the maid, rushing into the room, “they are murdering a man under the garden wall.”

  “Michael, Michael,” cried Luisa, stretching her arms towards him, “you are a man, you have a knife, will you not try to help?”

  “By the Madonna, I will!” exclaimed Michael. And he opened the window, and was just going to leap down into the road, when he uttered a cry of terror, and murmuring: “It is Pasquale di Simone, the Queen’s own assassin!” crouched down below the window.

  “Then,” cried Luisa, rushing towards the entrance, “I will go myself.”

  Nanno moved as if to hold her back, then, shaking her head:

  “Go, ill-fated one!” she said, “go to meet they fate!”

  Short as the distance was to the garden entrance, the assassins had already vanished when Luisa opened it. The body of a young man sank back into the garden. With a strength hitherto unsuspected by her she dragged the motionless weight inside, closed the door, bolted it, and called on the others to help. Michael raised the young officer in his arms, Nina took his feet, Luisa supported the head, and together they bore him into the house. Nanno remained behind seeking for various medicinal herbs in the garden, and muttering magic spells while she sought.

  Michael looked at the young man and shook his head.

  “Little sister,” he said, “what will the Chevalier say when he sees this handsome young man brought in here by you in his absence?”

  “He will pity him, Michael, and say that I did well,” answered Luisa with confidence.

  “Very likely, if it were an ordinary assassination, but when the assassin happens to be Pasquale di Simone, do you think an officer of the Prince’s household can shelter a man hunted down by the Queen’s assassin?”

  “You are right,” said Luisa after a moment’s thought. “But what are we to do, I cannot abandon a man in this condition?”

  “Little sister,” said Michael, “have you not the keys of the Duchess’s house which is now empty?”