“There!” said his guide, at last, as they reached a great archway standing alone in a sort of lawn,--“there! you follow that road to the little gate yonder, pass in, cross the garden, and you will be at the side entrance of the Molo. I don't suppose you want to enter by the grand gate?” Major M'Caskey was not much in the habit of suffering an insolence to pass unresented; but he seemed to control himself as he drew forth his purse and took out a crown piece. “This is for your trouble, my worthy fellow,” said he; “go and look for it yonder;” and he jerked the piece of money over the low parapet, and sent it skimming along the sea a hundred yards off. Though the man's lips murmured in passion, and his dark eyes flashed anger, one look at the face of his companion assured him that the safer policy was to restrain his wrath, and, touching his hat in salute, he retired without a word. As though he felt in better temper with himself for having thus discharged this little debt, the Major stepped more briskly forward, gained the small postern, and entered a large and formal garden, the chief avenue of which showed him the gate at the extremity. It lay open, and he found himself in a large vaulted hall, from which doors led off. In doubt which course to take, he turned to seek for a bell, but there was none to be found; and after a careful search on every side, he determined to announce himself by a stout knocking at one of the doors before him. The hollow clamor resounded through the whole building, and soon brought down two men in faded livery, half terrified, half angry at the summons. M'Caskey, at once assuming the upper hand, a habit in which practice had made him proficient, demanded haughtily to see “the Count,” their master. “He is at dinner,” said they both together. “I wish I were so too,” said the Major. “Go in and tell him that I am the bearer of a royal despatch, and desire to see him immediately.” They held counsel together in whispers for a few minutes, during which the name Maria occurred frequently between them. “We will tell the Signora Maria you are here,” said one, at last. “And who may she be?” said M'Caskey, haughtily. “She is the Cameriera of the Countess, and the chief of all the household.” “My business is not with a waiting-woman. I have come to see the Count of Amalfi,” said the Major, sternly. The men apparently knew their own duties best, and, civilly asking him to follow, they led the way up a small flight of stairs, and after traversing some scantily furnished rooms, showed him into a pretty decorated little chamber, with two windows looking on the sea.