“Certo. He was the Marchese Loredano some years ago; but he has come into his dukedom since then.” “He must be a very old man by this time.” “Yes, he is old; but what of that? He is as hale, and bright, and stately as ever. You have seen him before?” “Yes,” I said, turning away; “I have seen him—years ago.” “You have heard of his marriage?” I shook my head. The clerk chuckled, rubbed his hands, and shrugged his shoulders. “An extraordinary affair,” he said. “Made a tremendous esclandre at the time. He married his mistress—quite a common, vulgar girl—a Genoese—very handsome; but not received, of course. Nobody visits her.” “Married her!” I exclaimed. “Impossible.” “True, I assure you.” I put my hand to my head. I felt as if I had had a fall or a blow. “Does she—does she go to-night?” I faltered. “O dear, yes—goes everywhere with him—never lets him out of her sight. You’ll see her—la bella Duchessa!” With this my informant laughed, and rubbed his hands again, and went back to his office. The day went by, I scarcely know how, except that my whole soul was in a tumult of rage and bitterness. I returned from my afternoon’s work about 7.25, and at 10.30 I was once again at the station. I had examined the engine; given instructions to the Fochista, or stoker, about the fire; seen to the supply of oil; and got all in readiness, when, just as I was about to compare my watch with the clock in the ticket-office, a hand was laid upon my arm, and a voice in my ear said: “Are you the engine-driver who is going on with this special train?” I had never seen the speaker before. He was a small, dark man, muffled up about the throat, with blue glasses, a large black beard, and his hat drawn low upon his eyes. “You are a poor man, I suppose,” he said, in a quick, eager whisper, “and, like other poor men, would not object to be better off. Would you like to earn a couple of thousand florins?” “In what way?” “Hush! You are to stop at Padua, are you not, and to go on again at Ponte di Brenta?” I nodded. “Suppose you did nothing of the kind. Suppose, instead of turning off the steam, you jump off the engine, and let the train run on?” “Impossible. There are seventy yards of embankment gone, and—” “Basta! I know that. Save yourself, and let the train run on. It would be nothing but an accident.” I turned hot and cold; I trembled; my heart beat fast, and my breath failed. “Why do you tempt me?” I faltered. “For Italy’s sake,” he whispered; “for liberty’s sake. I know you are no Italian; but, for all that, you may be a friend. This Loredano is one of his country’s bitterest enemies. Stay, here are the two thousand florins.” I thrust his hand back fiercely. “No—no,” I said. “No blood-money. If I do it, I do it neither for Italy nor for money; but for vengeance.” “For vengeance!” he repeated.