“On that point we are not agreed,” said the prefetto, sarcastically; “but you have admitted enough to warrant me in the course I shall pursue respecting you--the fact of a false name and passport, the identity with a well-known character admitted--I have now to detain you in custody until such time as the consul of your country may take steps for your conveyance to England, where already new evidence of your criminality awaits you. Yes, prisoner, the mystery which involved your guilt is at length about to be dissipated, and the day of expiation draws nigh.” Roland did not speak. Shame at the degraded position he occupied, even in the eyes of those with whom he had associated, overwhelmed him, and he suffered himself to be led away without a word. Alone in the darkness and silence of a prison, he sat indifferent to what might befall him, wearied of himself and all the world. Days, even weeks passed on, and none inquired after him; he seemed forgotten of all, when the consul, who had been absent, having returned, it was discovered that the allegations respecting the murder were not sufficient to warrant his being transmitted to England, and that the only charge against him lay in the assumed nationality,--an offence it was deemed sufficiently expiated by his imprisonment. He was free then once more,--free to wander forth into the world where his notoriety had been already proclaimed, and where, if not his guilt, his shame was published. Of Maritaña all that he could learn was that she had left Venice without again appearing in public; but in what direction none knew accurately. Cashel justly surmised that she had not gone without seeing him once more had it not been from the compulsion of others; and if he grieved to think they were never to meet more, he felt a secret consolation on reflecting how much of mutual shame and sorrow was spared them. Shame was indeed the predominant emotion of his mind; shame for his now sullied name--his character tarnished by the allegations of crime; and shame for her, degraded to a _ballarina_. Had fortune another reverse in store for him? Was there one cherished hope still remaining? Had life one solitary spot to which he could now direct his weary steps, and be at rest? The publicity which late events had given to his name rendered him more timid and retiring than ever. A morbid sense of modesty--a shrinking dread of the slights to which he would be exposed in the world--made him shun all intercourse, and live a life of utter seclusion. Like all men who desire solitude, he soon discovered that it is alone attainable in great cities. Where the great human tide runs full and strong, the scattered wrecks are scarcely noticeable.