Tigellinus had made, no doubt, the best choice possible for the purpose required, when he led the beautiful young Roman lady hither to this spot, hidden away half round a hill, on the brink of the cliffs, as far as a human foot could venture; but, as no previous notice had been made to its resident, of the unexpected honour about to be conferred upon him, the ancient husbandman was, as might be expected, considerably startled. A few whispered words from Tigellinus in his ear, however, charmed away the astonished and ill‐tempered expression of his restless, mistrustful eyes, and he became readiness, compliance, and amiability itself. The haughty and even scornful bearing of his visitor, as she glanced around her lodging, and scanned him from head to foot, might seem to have warmed his old heart with gratefulness, so deep was his obeisance, and so great was the grimace of joy with which he contorted his face. His wife, as lean and withered as himself, had a hard time of it for a space; but, finally, all arrangements were made for the comfortable bestowment of the visitors, and the household sank into sleep and oblivion. The following morning, as day was breaking, Tucca came out of his house into the raw air. Water was an element he did not favour at any time, but more particularly thus early. Hence he proceeded to his work in a state of semi‐wakefulness. A little grove of fruit trees covered the left flank of the house, and through this he directed his steps, more by instinct than due perception of where he was going. In the midst there was an arbour, or summer‐house, in a state of bad repair, being a structure designed for ornament and ease, with which Tucca had no sympathy whatever. Its frame, in fact, was mainly held together by the twining creepers, which thickly enwrapped it, and almost hid the doorway from view. As the old husbandman passed close by this, an arm was thrust forth from amid the creepers, and the hand thereof grasped him by the shoulder. Tucca, startled out of his comatose state, gave vent to a yelp of surprise, very largely mixed with fear, but it was lost within the gloom of the arbour whither he was dragged. ‘Good morrow, Tucca; you are out betimes; you deserve to be as rich as people say you are.’ Tucca gazed at his captor; but the gloom, combined with his confused faculties, prevented him from making anything out save a figure clothed in a long cloak and peaked hood, or burnoose, which well‐nigh enveloped the face as well as the head. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ was the natural response of the wine‐ grower. ‘I am one you know, and I am here to see you on particular business.’ ‘You may be some one I know, but this is a strange time and a strange place to lie in wait; I don’t like the look of it myself,’ was the short, crusty answer. ‘Come into the daylight, such as it is, so far!’ ‘No,’ replied the figure, holding him back; ‘I prefer staying here until we have finished.’ ‘I ought to know your voice.’