Without admitting that I was the man they were looking for, I made up a fictitious story, declaring my innocence. It was listened to incredulously by most of them, but among a few I thought I saw looks that encouraged me, and I wound up with an impromptu appeal for life which I felt must touch them. I was doomed to bitter disappointment, when the man who had been so officiously anxious to hang me at once, rose, remarking with a harsh laugh: “No, no, you can’t deceive us in that way. Come on. Let’s hang him!” Several rose, and with loud, deep, voluble oaths supported the suggestion. My blood ran cold as I realised my imminent peril. These rough fellows from Piacenza felt perfectly justified in hanging me to the nearest tree, seeing that I had shot one of their number. What could I do? I gazed from one to the other like a hunted animal. “Surely you would not hang a man without evidence,” I cried. “I can show you letters to prove who I am.” The tall man, whom they called Luigi, stepped up and unbound my hands. I drew forth a note I received while in Paris. It contained a _carte-de-visite_ of my sister Mascha, which fell to the floor as I drew out the letter. Luigi picked it up. “It is my sister’s picture,” I cried. “Here, read the letter any of you. It will prove that I am an honest man.” Luigi gazed earnestly at the picture. “_Dio mio!_ she’s a beauty!” he remarked. The picture was passed round, but opinions were freely expressed that she was not my sister at all. Ninetta crowded in among the men and asked to see the photograph. Luigi handed it to her, jocosely remarking that he would marry her when she grew to be as handsome as that. She quietly replied: “He speaks the truth!” and gazed intently on the photograph. “I’ll swear that’s his sister,” she added presently. “I’m inclined to think so, too,” remarked Luigi. “I think we’d better wait and take him back to Piacenza.” At this there was a dissenting murmur, which grew so strong that my courage failed again. Suddenly Luigi turned to the crowd and cried. “Let us give him a chance. I’ll play him at dominoes. If he loses we’ll end his troubles. What do you say?” “Capital idea. Let him be tried by his skill with the ivories!” cried one of the men, and the scheme seemed to tickle the fancy of the crowd. They evidently had confidence in Luigi’s ability to play dominoes. Unfortunately it was a game of which I knew nothing, and I told them so. Ninetta was still standing beside Luigi. “Let me play for him,” she said eagerly. “Luck is always with me.” “Yes, let her play,” cried the men, evidently amused at the novelty of the thing, and also sure that the old Italian’s superior skill would win. “Yes, let Ninetta play for him. Give her your money,” they said, addressing me. I looked at the girl curiously. Her big dark eyes were glittering with excitement, but she was cool and self-possessed. Taking out my purse which contained my wealth, about £70 in fifty lire notes, I handed it to her.