“Here she is,” the sailor whispered, after rowing for some time in silence. “Keep close behind me and hold your tongue.” He clambered up the side of a huge black monster, swearing under his breath at the clumsiness of the landsman, though Arthur's natural agility rendered him less awkward than most people would have been in his place. Once safely on board, they crept cautiously between dark masses of rigging and machinery, and came at last to a hatchway, which the sailor softly raised. “Down here!” he whispered. “I'll be back in a minute.” The hold was not only damp and dark, but intolerably foul. At first Arthur instinctively drew back, half choked by the stench of raw hides and rancid oil. Then he remembered the “punishment cell,” and descended the ladder, shrugging his shoulders. Life is pretty much the same everywhere, it seemed; ugly, putrid, infested with vermin, full of shameful secrets and dark corners. Still, life is life, and he must make the best of it. In a few minutes the sailor came back with something in his hands which Arthur could not distinctly see for the darkness. “Now, give me the watch and money. Make haste!” Taking advantage of the darkness, Arthur succeeded in keeping back a few coins. “You must get me something to eat,” he said; “I am half starved.” “I've brought it. Here you are.” The sailor handed him a pitcher, some hard biscuit, and a piece of salt pork. “Now mind, you must hide in this empty barrel, here, when the customs officers come to examine to-morrow morning. Keep as still as a mouse till we're right out at sea. I'll let you know when to come out. And won't you just catch it when the captain sees you--that's all! Got the drink safe? Good-night!” The hatchway closed, and Arthur, setting the precious “drink” in a safe place, climbed on to an oil barrel to eat his pork and biscuit. Then he curled himself up on the dirty floor; and, for the first time since his babyhood, settled himself to sleep without a prayer. The rats scurried round him in the darkness; but neither their persistent noise nor the swaying of the ship, nor the nauseating stench of oil, nor the prospect of to-morrow's sea-sickness, could keep him awake. He cared no more for them all than for the broken and dishonoured idols that only yesterday had been the gods of his adoration. PART II. THIRTEEN YEARS LATER. CHAPTER I. ONE evening in July, 1846, a few acquaintances met at Professor Fabrizi's house in Florence to discuss plans for future political work.