The “Ballet interrupted in its most interesting moment,” “La Ninetta carried away fainting at the very commencement of her most attractive movement,” insulted--so it was rumored--“by some offensive epithet of a Spaniard,” were enough to carry indignation to the highest pitch, and it needed the protection of the guard to screen him from the popular vengeance. After a night of feverish anxiety, where hopes and fears warred and conflicted with each other, Cashel was early on the following morning conducted before the chief commissary of the police. His passport represented him as a Spaniard, and he adhered to the pretended nationality to avoid the dreaded notoriety of his name. While he answered the usual questions as to age, religion, and profession, an officer deposited a sealed paper in the hands of the prefetto; who, opening it, appeared to study the contents with much care. “You have called yourself Il Señor Roland da Castel, sir?” said the official, staring fixedly upon him. “Have you always gone by this name?” “In Mexico and the New World I was ever known as such. In England men called me Roland Cashel.” “Which is your more fitting appellation--is it not?” “Yes.” “You are then an English, and not a Spanish subject?” He nodded assent. “You were, however, in a South American service?” said the prefetto, reading from his paper. Roland bowed again. “In which service, or pretended service, you commanded a slaver?” “This is untrue,” said Cashel, calmly. “I have it asserted here, however, by those of whose statements you have already acknowledged the accuracy.” “It is not the less a falsehood.” “Perhaps you will allow more correctness to the next allegation? It is said that, under the pretended right to a large inheritance, you visited England, and succeeded in preferring a claim to a vast estate?” Roland bent his head in assent. “And that to this property you possessed neither right nor title?” Roland started: the charge involved a secret he believed unknown, save to himself, Hammond, and Linton, and he could not master his surprise enough to reply. “But a weightier allegation is yet behind, sir,” said the prefetto, sternly. “Are you the same Roland Cashel whose trial for murder occupied the assizes of Ennis in the spring of the year 18--?” “I am,” said Cashel, faintly. “Your escape of conviction depended on the absence of a material witness for the prosecution, I believe?” “I was acquitted because I was not guilty, sir.”