Little as he was disposed to be communicative, Albert Jekyl--for it was our old acquaintance--contrived to learn, as they went along, every circumstance of the late encounter. The pliant Jekyl fully concurred in the indignant epithets of cowards and assassins bestowed by Frank upon his late assailants, deplored with him the miserable and mistaken policy of revolt among the people, and regretted that, as foreigners themselves, they could not offer the hospitality of the villa to the wounded man without exposing their lives and fortunes to an Infuriated peasantry. “What nation do you then belong to?” asked Frank, shrewdly concealing his knowledge of English. “We are, so to say, of different countries,” said Jekyl, smiling, and evading the question. “The padre is a Florentine--” “And the lady?” “She is a very charming person, and if it were not that she is a little over-devout, a shade too good, would be the most delightful creature in existence.” “The tall man is her husband, I conclude.” “No,----not her husband,” smiled Jekyl again; “a person you 'll like much when you see more of him. Short and abrupt, perhaps, at first, but so kind-hearted and so generous.” “And has the villa got a name?” asked Frank, in a voice of some impatience at finding how little his companion repaid his frankness. “It is called La Rocca,” said Jekyl. “Had you not been a stranger in Italy, you would scarcely have asked. It is the most celebrated on the whole lake.” Frank thought he had heard the name before; but when, where, or how, he could not remember. Other cares were, besides, too pressing upon him to make him dwell on the subject, and he willingly addressed himself to the more urgent duties of the moment. The boat-house stood in no need of all Jekyl's apologies. Frank had lodged in many inferior quarters since he had begun soldiering; there were several excellent bedrooms, and a delightful little _salon_ which looked directly out upon the lake. Ravitzky, too, had rallied considerably, and his wounds, although formidable from the loss of blood, showed nothing likely to prove fatal. Jekyl pledged himself to send a surgeon at once to him; and, adding all kinds of civil speeches and offers of personal services, at last left the friends together to exchange confidences. “What are our hosts like, Dalton?” said the cadet “_You_ would call them most patriotic, Ravitzky, for they would scarcely give us shelter. Their only regret seemed that our friends yonder had not done the work better, and finished off the rest of us.” “It is not pleasant to accept of an ungracious hospitality; but I suppose that I, at least, shall not trouble them long. There 's something hot goes on ebbing here that tells of internal bleeding; and if so, a few hours ought to suffice.” Frank did his best to rally his poor comrade; but the task is a difficult one with those whose fear of death is small. “You'll have to write to Milan, Dalton,” said he, suddenly.