‘And who will feed us while we are waiting for election day?’ asked another, who had been listening silently. The question was unanswerable, and Sybert sat frowning down at the table without speaking. The Neapolitan presently broke in again. There was something electric about his words and the force behind them. Every one bent forward to listen. ‘Who is the King?’ he demanded. ‘He is only a man. So am I a man. Then what makes him so different from me? They may shoot me down if they like, but first I have work to do. The King shall know me before I die. And he is not all,’ he added darkly. ‘Do you know why the wheat’s so scarce? Because of a _forestiere_ here in Rome—Signor Copli—he that put down the Camorra in Naples and throws the beggars into prison.’ An angry mutter ran around the room. ‘You’re mistaken there,’ Sybert interrupted. ‘It’s not this Signor Copli who bought the wheat; it’s his brother in America. This Signor Copli is the friend of the poor people. Many, many thousand lire he gives away every year, and no one knows about it.’ A more friendly murmur arose, but the Neapolitan was still unconvinced. ‘It is the same Signor Copli,’ he affirmed stubbornly. ‘He hides the wheat in America, where he thinks no one will know about it. And then, after stealing it all from the mouths of the poor, he gives a little back with a great show, thinking to blind us. But we know. The _Grido del Popolo_ printed it out in black and white for all who can to read.’ ‘And the _Grido del Popolo_ was stopped this morning and the editor put in jail for printing lies,’ said Sybert sharply. ‘Ah, you’re a police spy! You pretend to be for us to make us talk.’ His hand half instinctively went to his belt. Sybert rose to his feet and dropped his hand roughly on the man’s shoulder. ‘The best thing you can do for your country is to put that stiletto into the fire.’ He turned aside with an expression of disgust and tossed some silver coins on the table in payment for the wine. Then pausing a moment, he glanced about the circle of swarthy faces. Gradually his expression softened. ‘I’ve tried to warn you. The police are on the watch, and I should advise you to stick pretty closely to your homes and not mix up in any riots. I will do what I can to get food and money for the poor people—I know of no other way to help. Heaven knows I would do it if I could!’ He nodded to them, and motioning Tarquinio to follow, passed into the front room. Closing the door behind them, he turned to the innkeeper. ‘Tarquinio, I think you had better go up into the hills and attend to your vineyard for a few weeks.’ The young Italian’s face was the picture of dismay. ‘But the _osteria_, Signor Siberti; who will manage that?’