“What have they discovered now?” cried he, testily, as in a crowd of vehicles, of all sorts and sizes, he was jammed up like a coal-vessel in the river. “Is the peasant a revolutionary general in disguise? or has he got Bibles or British cutlery under the straw of his baroccino?” “No, Eccellenza.” (Every one in a passion in Italy is styled Eccellenza, as an “anodyne.”) “It's a sick man, and they don't know what to do with him.” “Is there a duty on ague or nervous fever?” asked he, angrily. “They suspect he's dead, Eccellenza; and if so, there's no use in bringing him into the city, to bring him out again by and by.” “And don't they know if a man be dead or alive?” “Not when he's a foreigner, Illustrissimo; and such is the case here.” “Ah, very true!” said Grounsell, dryly, as if acquiescing in the truth of the remark. “Let me have a look at him; perhaps I can assist their judgment.” And with this he descended, and made his way through the crowd, who, in all the eagerness of curiosity, thronged around the cart A peasant's great-coat was drawn over the figure and even the face of the sick man, as he lay at full length on the mat flooring of the baroccino; and on his chest some pious hand had deposited a rosary and a wooden crucifix. Grounsell hastily drew back the covering, and then clutching an arm of those at either side of him, he uttered a faint cry, for the pale and deathlike features before him were those of George Onslow. The instincts of the doctor, however, soon rose above every other feeling, and his hand seized the wrist and felt for the pulse. Its beatings were slow, labored, and irregular, denoting the brain as the seat of injury. Grounsell, therefore, proceeded to examine the head, which, covered with clogged and matted blood, presented a terrific appearance; yet neither there nor elsewhere was there any trace of injury by fire-arms. The history of discovery was soon told. A shepherd had detected the body as he passed the spot, and, hailing some peasants on their way to Florence, advised their taking charge of it to the city, where they would be surely recompensed. The natural suggestion of Grounsel's mind was that, in making his escape from the gendarmes, Onslow had fallen over a cliff. To convey him home, and get him to bed, if possible, before Sir Stafford should hear of the misfortune, was his first care; and in this he succeeded. It was the time when Sir Stafford usually slept; and Grounsell was able to examine his patient, and satisfy himself that no fatal injury was done, long before the old Baronet awoke. “Sir Stafford wishes to see you, sir; he asked for you repeatedly to-day,” said Proctor. “Has he heard--does he know anything of this?” said Grounsell, with a gesture to the bed where George lay. “Not a word, sir. He was very cheerful all the morning, but wondering where you could have gone, and what Mister George was doing.”