“No,” said Mr. Ferris; “I am quite at leisure for the present. In what can I have the honor of serving you?” Don Ippolito heaved a long, ineffectual sigh, and taking his linen handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead with it, and rolled it upon his knee. He looked at the door, and all round the room, and then rose and drew near the consul, who had officially seated himself at his desk. “I suppose that the Signor Console gives passports?” he asked. “Sometimes,” replied Mr. Ferris, with a clouding face. Don Ippolito seemed to note the gathering distrust and to be helpless against it. He continued hastily: “Could the Signor Console give a passport for America ... to me?” “Are you an American citizen?” demanded the consul in the voice of a man whose suspicions are fully roused. “American citizen?” “Yes; subject of the American republic.” “No, surely; I have not that happiness. I am an Austrian subject,” returned Don Ippolito a little bitterly, as if the last words were an unpleasant morsel in the mouth. “Then I can’t give you a passport,” said Mr. Ferris, somewhat more gently. “You know,” he explained, “that no government can give passports to foreign subjects. That would be an unheard-of thing.” “But I thought that to go to America an American passport would be needed.” “In America,” returned the consul, with proud compassion, “they don’t care a fig for passports. You go and you come, and nobody meddles. To be sure,” he faltered, “just now, on account of the secessionists, they _do_ require you to show a passport at New York; but,” he continued more boldly, “American passports are usually for Europe; and besides, all the American passports in the world wouldn’t get _you_ over the frontier at Peschiera. _You_ must have a passport from the Austrian Lieutenancy of Venice.” Don Ippolito nodded his head softly several times, and said, “Precisely,” and then added with an indescribable weariness, “Patience! Signor Console, I ask your pardon for the trouble I have given,” and he made the consul another low bow. Whether Mr. Ferris’s curiosity was piqued, and feeling himself on the safe side of his visitor he meant to know why he had come on such an errand, or whether he had some kindlier motive, he could hardly have told himself, but he said, “I’m very sorry. Perhaps there is something else in which I could be of use to you.” “Ah, I hardly know,” cried Don Ippolito. “I really had a kind of hope in coming to your excellency.” “I am not an excellency,” interrupted Mr. Ferris, conscientiously. “Many excuses! But now it seems a mere bestiality. I was so ignorant about the other matter that doubtless I am also quite deluded in this.” “As to that, of course I can’t say,” answered Mr. Ferris, “but I hope not.”