&ldquo;You don&rsquo;t mean to say,&rdquo; I exclaimed, amazed, &ldquo;that you have been held up like this in the Villa at half-past ten o&rsquo;clock, within a stone&rsquo;s throw of a thousand people!&rdquo; </p> <p> He nodded several times, staring at me with all his might. </p> <p> &ldquo;The clarionet,&rdquo; he declared, solemnly, &ldquo;was finishing his solo, and I assure you I could hear every note. Then the band crashed fortissimo, and that creature rolled its eyes and gnashed its teeth hissing at me with the greatest ferocity, &lsquo;Be silent! No noise or&mdash;&lsquo;&rdquo; </p> <p> I could not get over my astonishment. </p> <p> &ldquo;What sort of knife was it?&rdquo; I asked, stupidly. </p> <p> &ldquo;A long blade. A stiletto&mdash;perhaps a kitchen knife. A long narrow blade. It gleamed. And his eyes gleamed. His white teeth, too. I could see them. He was very ferocious. I thought to myself: &lsquo;If I hit him he will kill me.&rsquo; How could I fight with him? He had the knife and I had nothing. I am nearly seventy, you know, and that was a young man. I seemed even to recognize him. The moody young man of the cafe. The young man I met in the crowd. But I could not tell. There are so many like him in this country.&rdquo; </p> <p> The distress of that moment was reflected in his face. I should think that physically he must have been paralyzed by surprise. His thoughts, however, remained extremely active. They ranged over every alarming possibility. The idea of setting up a vigorous shouting for help occurred to him, too. But he did nothing of the kind, and the reason why he refrained gave me a good opinion of his mental self-possession. He saw in a flash that nothing prevented the other from shouting, too. </p> <p> &ldquo;That young man might in an instant have thrown away his knife and pretended I was the aggressor. Why not? He might have said I attacked him. Why not? It was one incredible story against another! He might have said anything&mdash;bring some dishonouring charge against me&mdash;what do I know? By his dress he was no common robber. He seemed to belong to the better classes. What could I say? He was an Italian&mdash;I am a foreigner. Of course, I have my passport, and there is our consul&mdash;but to be arrested, dragged at night to the police office like a criminal!&rdquo; </p> <p> He shuddered. It was in his character to shrink from scandal, much more than from mere death. And certainly for many people this would have always remained&mdash;considering certain peculiarities of Neapolitan manners&mdash;a deucedly queer story. The Count was no fool. His belief in the respectable