“God bless your soul,” cried Brunow, “it was devotion! Those Austrian fellows are as cunning as the devil. The Italians have been made to believe these twenty years that the count was playing fast and loose with both parties. His jailers made out that he had been a paid spy in their service, and pretended that he had been killed by one of the Nationalist party, whom they hanged.” “Of course you made no effort to release him?” “How the deuce could I? Release him! If you knew the fortress at Itzia you'd think twice before trying that. Besides--hang it all, man!--I was Reschia's guest; and he told me the story under the seal of confession.” I spoke unguardedly, but I was not allowed to go far. “If your story is true, Brunow--” “What do you mean by that?” he asked, with sudden anger. Everybody knew how utterly irresponsible he was, but nothing made him so angry as to be doubted. “The story's true; and if proof were wanted, here is proof enough.” He rose with unusual vivacity, and, throwing open an escritoire, took from it a disorderly little pile of papers. He searched this through, muttering in a wounded tone meanwhile. “True? If the story's true? I'll show you whether it's true or not! No! By George, it isn't here! Now where on earth can I have put that paper?” Just as I was laughing inwardly to think how well he thought it worth while to pretend, he slapped his forehead with a sudden air of recollection, turned again to the escritoire, drew from it a crumpled dirty scrap of paper, and striding over to me thrust it into my hand. “Read that,” he said. “These lines,” I read, “are written by the Conte di Rossano, for more than twenty years a prisoner in the fortress of Itzia. They are carried at grave danger to himself by an attendant whose pity has been moved by the contemplation of a life of great misery. Should they reach the hands of the English stranger for whom they are intended, he is besought, for the love of God, to convey them to the Contessa di Rossano, daughter of Sir Arthur Rawlings, of Barston Manor, Warwickshire, who must long have mourned the writer as dead.” “That was slipped into my hand as I was leaving the village,” said Brunow. “If the countess had been living--unless she had been married again--I should have thought it my duty to let her know the truth. But Miss Rossano knows nothing--guesses nothing. Why should I wound her with a piece of news like this?” We did not talk much more that night, but I had plenty to think about as I walked home to my hotel. CHAPTER II