"No. She lives in another province to that in which she was imprisoned. No one there knows that she is an escaped convict, and as the Prince was once attached to this Embassy, we are not likely to divulge." He chaffed me a little, laughed heartily in his good-natured way, and soon afterwards we rejoined the guests. I have heard nothing since of my unconventional travelling companion. A short time ago, however, I received an anonymous present of furs, and I shrewdly suspect whence it came. The Prince's ring, which is the admiration and envy of many of my friends, still glitters on my finger, and I regard it as a souvenir of the most happy and romantic journey of my life. CHAPTER FIVE. SANTINA. "From the Contessa, signore." A tall liveried servant handed me a coroneted missive, and, bowing stiffly, withdrew. Taking the letter mechanically, I sat puffing at my cigarette and dreaming. The sultry day was over, and the full moon was shining down clear and cool. Genoa had drawn breath again; its streets and piazzas had grown alive with the stir of manifold movement; the broad Via Roma, with its fine shops and garish _cafes_, echoed with increasing confusion of voices and jest and laughter and song; while the flower-sellers were everywhere, and the newsboys in strident tones cried the _Secolo_ and the _Gazzetta_. My small and rather shabby room was on the top floor of a great old palazzo in the Via Balbi. The jalousies, wide-open, admitted little gusts of fresh air that blew up from the sea, while the ceaseless babel of tongues, the clip-clap of horses' hoofs, and the indescribable odour of garlic, fried oil, and the cheap cigars characteristic of an Italian street, was borne in upon me. Two candles in the sconces of a small Venetian mirror shed their light over the pedestal, upon which was a statue almost finished. It was a representation of a lovely woman in carnival dress, that I had chiselled in marble. The face was absolutely beautiful, not only because of its perfect harmony, not only winsome in the gentleness of its contour, but it was also masterful by virtue of the freedom and force expressed in all its firmness. Lazily I opened the letter, and prepared to feast upon its contents. But the few brief words penned in a woman's hand caused me to start to my feet in anger and dismay; and, holding my breath, I crushed the missive and cast it under my foot. She who had written to me was the original of this statue, which was considered my masterpiece. The note was cold and formal, unlike her usual graceful letters. It stated that she was leaving Italy that evening; and expressed regret she could not sit again to me. She also enclosed a bank-note for two thousand lire, which she apparently believed would repay me for my trouble. My trouble! _Dio mio_! Had it not been a labour of love, when I adored--nay, worshipped her; and she, in her turn, had bestowed smiles and kisses upon me?