Imagine my confusion. I held my breath, and perhaps it was fortunate for me that the darkness hid the pallor of my face. "Who are you?" demanded one of the rural guards in Italian, with a strong northern accent. He was Piedmontese, I think. "I am an Englishman," I answered, quite frankly, but making a strenuous effort to remain calm. "So I hear by your speech," the man replied gruffly. "And what are you doing here? The English don't usually walk about here at this hour?" "I've walked from Palestrina, and lost myself in the darkness. Is that Tivoli down yonder?" "Yes it is. But what's your name?" he inquired, as though my quick reply had aroused his suspicions. I regretted my words next instant. I intended to mislead the man, but he evidently did not believe me. I saw that if I was not now perfectly frank I might be arrested on suspicion and detained in the carabineer barracks until morning. I recognised into what deadly peril my intrepidity had now led me. If they detained me the discovery of the tragedy and robbery at the Villa Verde would certainly be made, and I should find myself implicated with those three assassins. The circumstantial evidence against me would be very strong, and it might be many months before I regained my freedom. In such circumstances I should, alas! lose my Ella for ever! "My name is Godfrey Leaf, native of London," was my reply. "And what brings you here? You certainly haven't walked from Palestrina. You'd be more dusty than you are." "Of course he would," remarked the man's companion, shifting his carbine to his other shoulder. "He's lying." "Well," I said, feigning to be insulted by the fellow's inquiries, "why should I tell you my business? It is no affair of yours, surely. Do you think I'm an assassin, or on my way to rob some _contadini_ of his poultry?" "We can never tell a man by his dress. Besides, how are we to know who you are--that you are really the person you say?" I was silent. His question was an awkward one. But suddenly I recollected. "Well, perhaps this will convince you that I'm a respectable person, eh?" And taking from my pocket-book my Italian revolver licence I handed it to him. He opened it suspiciously, then said; "Come farther down with us, to that light, and let's have a good look at you." Now an Italian licence to carry a revolver is a very different document from that in England. It is issued only in very rare cases by the police themselves to responsible persons who first have to show that they are in danger of their lives from _vendetta_ or some other cause, and that to carry a weapon is for them personal defence. Upon the licence is the minute police description of the person to whom it is issued, as well as his signature, while the document is also countersigned by the Prefect of the city whence it is issued. It is therefore the best of all identification papers.