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shaking Mourai with excessive vigour in his attempts to revive him, and so he rushed to release the old man from that all-too- powerful grasp. It was at that instant that poor Signor di Mourai, with an immense effort, uttered his last words: "Alas, so it really is true," he gasped in Italian. Then he left off from panting. His eyes remained fixed upon his host and a greenish dribble ran from his mouth to his breast. And so he died.
    "The old man, es el viejo," gasped Padre Robleda mixing languages in a terrorised whisper, no sooner than we had heard two men-at-arms murmur the words "pestilence" and "shutting up".
    "Cristofano, physician and chirurgeon, from Siena!" called the of­ficer.
    With slow and measured gestures, our Tuscan guest stepped for­ward, holding the little leather bag containing all his instruments from which he was never parted.
    "It is I," he responded in a low voice, after opening his bag, shuf­fling through a mass of papers and, with frigid dignity, clearing his voice. Cristofano was rotund and short of stature, careful of his ap­pearance and with a jovial expression that set one at ease. That evening, his face was pale and dripping with perspiration, nor did he take the trouble to wipe it; his pupils focussed on something invis­ible in front of him and, before he moved, he made a quick gesture, smoothing his pointed beard. His every movement betrayed the ex­treme apprehensiveness behind his would-be phlegmatic calm.
    "I wish to make it clear that, following a preliminary but careful examination of Signor di Mourai's body, I am by no means certain that this is a case of infection," began Cristofano. "The medical ex­aminer of the Magistrate for Health, who asserts this with such con­fidence, spent very little time with the corpse. I have here," and he showed the papers, "my written observations on the case. I believe they could help you to reconsider the situation a little longer and delay any over-hasty decision on your part."
    The Bargello's men, however, had neither the power nor the de­sire to enter into such points of detail.
    "The Magistrate has ordered the immediate closure of this inn," said the officer who seemed to be in charge, adding that, for the time being, a proper quarantine had not been declared: the closure was for twenty days only, and without evacuation of the street; so long, of course, as there were no further deaths or suspected cases of distemper.
    "Seeing as I too am to be locked up, and in order that I may the better arrive at my diagnosis," insisted Signor Cristofano with some irritation, "may I not at least know something more about the last meals on which the late Signor di Mourai supped, he being accus­tomed always to eat alone and in his chamber? It may have been no more than a simple congestion."
    The objection had the effect of creating hesitancy on the part of the men-at-arms, who besought the innkeeper with their eyes. The latter had, however, not even heard the physician's request: slumped on a chair, plunged in dejection, he groaned and uttered impreca­tions, as was his wont, against the innumerable torments which life inflicted upon him. The last of these had been when, scarcely a week earlier, a small crack had appeared in one of the walls of the inn, no rare occurrence in the old houses of Rome. The fissure entailed no danger whatever, so we were told; yet it was more than enough to engender in my master both melancholy and rage.
    Meanwhile, the roll-call continued. Evening shadows were length­ening and the officers had decided to admit of no further delay with the closure.
    "Domenico Stilone Priaso, from Naples! Angiolo Brenozzi, from Venice!"
    The two young men, the former a poet, the latter a glass-blower, stepped forward, looking at one another, seemingly relieved to be called up together, almost as though that lessened the apprehen­sion. Brenozzi, the glass-blower—with fearful expression, his shining brown curls and small turned-up nose like a