There was no occasion for this last intruder to announce himself, in a voice of thunder, as the Marchese Marinelli. I had at once recognised the original of the signorina’s photograph, and I perceived that I was now in about as uncomfortable a position as my bitterest enemy could have desired for me. The German old gentleman had been very angry at the outset; but his wrath, as compared with that of the Italian, was as a breeze to a hurricane. The marchese was literally quivering from head to foot with concentrated fury. His face was deadly white, his strongly marked features twitched convulsively, his eyes blazed like those of a wild animal. Having stated his identity in the manner already referred to, he made two strides toward the table by which I was seated, and stood glaring at me as though he would have sprung at my throat. I thought it might avert consequences which we should both afterward deplore if I were to place the table between us; and I did so without loss of time. From the other side of that barrier I adjured my visitor to keep cool, pledging him my word, in the same breath, that there was no harm done as yet. “No harm!” he repeated, in a strident shout that echoed through the bare room. “Dog! Villain! You ensnare my daughter’s affections--you entice her away from her father’s house--you cover my family with eternal disgrace--and then you dare to tell me there is no harm done! Wait a little, and you shall see that there will be harm enough for you. Marry her you must, since you have ruined her; but you shall die for it the next day! It is I--I, Ludovico Marinelli--who swear it!” I am aware that I do but scant justice to the marchese’s inimitable style. The above sentences must be imagined as hurled forth in a series of yells, with a pant between each of them. As a melodramatic actor this terrific Marinelli would, I am sure, have risen to the first rank in his profession. “Signore,” I said, “you are under a misapprehension. I have ensnared nobody’s affections, and I am entirely guiltless of all the crimes which you are pleased to attribute to me.” “What? Are you not, then, the hound who bears the vile and dishonoured name of Von Rosenau?” “I am not. I bear the less distinguished, but, I hope, equally respectable patronymic of Jenkinson.” But my modest disclaimer passed unheeded, for now another combatant had thrown himself into the fray. “Vile and dishonoured name! No one shall permit himself such language in my presence. I am Lieutenant-General Graf von Rosenau, sir, and you shall answer to me for your words.” The Herr Graf’s knowledge of Italian was somewhat limited; but, such as it was, it had enabled him to catch the sense of the stigma cast upon his family, and now he was upon his feet, red and gobbling, like a turkey-cock, and prepared to do battle with a hundred irate Venetians if need were.