“Yes, that's it,” muttered the other, in the tone of a man who was tired of a knotty problem. “And, according to your laws, this Lord Glencore may marry again?” cried the Russian. “I should think so, if he has no wife living,” said Selby; “but I trust, for _my_ sake, he'll not.” “And what if he should, and should be discovered the wedded husband of another?” “That would be bigamy,” said Selby. “Would they hang him, Baynton?” “I think not,--scarcely,” rejoined the Colonel. The Prince tried in various ways to obtain some insight into Lord Glencore's habits, his tastes and mode of life, but all in vain. They knew, indeed, very little, but even that little they were too indolent to repeat. Lord Selby's memory was often at fault, too, and Baynton's had ill supplied the deficiency. Again and again did the Russian mutter curses to himself over the apathy of these stony islanders. At moments he fancied that they suspected his eagerness, and had assumed their most guarded caution against him; but he soon perceived that this manner was natural to them, not prompted in the slightest degree by any distrust whatever. “After all,” thought the Russian, “how can I hope to stimulate a man who is not excited by his own increase of fortune? Talk of Turkish fatalism, these fellows would shame the Moslem.” “Do you mean to prolong your stay at Florence, my Lord?” asked the Prince, as they arose from the table. “I scarcely know. What do you say, Baynton?” “A week or so, I fancy,” muttered the other. “And then on to Rome, perhaps?” The two Englishmen looked at each other with an air of as much confusion as if subjected to a searching examination in science. “Well, I shouldn't wonder,” said Selby, at last, with a sigh. “Yes, it may come to that,” said Baynton, like a man who had just overcome a difficulty. “You 'll be in time for the Holy Week and all the ceremonies,” said the Prince. “Mind that, Baynton,” said his Lordship, who wasn't going to carry what he felt to be another man's load; and Baynton nodded acquiescence. “And after that comes the season for Naples,--you have a month or six weeks, perhaps, of such weather as nothing in all Europe can vie with.” “You hear, Baynton!” said Selby.