"
"What is that you have to say of Naples?" demanded a voice in the
door-way,--and turning, I confronted the Neapolitan.
She had started back at the abrupt apparition, and before she could
recover, stung by rage and surprise I had replied,--
"What have I to say of Naples? That its tyrant walks in blood to his
knees!"
A man, I, with my hot furies, to be intrusted with the commonwealth!
"I will trouble you to repeat that sentence at some day," he said.
"Here and now, if you will!" I uttered, my hand on my hilt.
"Thanks. Not here and now. It will answer, if you remember it _then_.--I
hope I see Her Highness well. Pardon this little _brusquerie_, I pray.
The southern air is kind to loveliness: I regret to bring with me Her
Highness's recall."
She replied in the same courteous air, inquired concerning her
acquaintance, and ordered lights,--took the letter he brought, and held
it, still sealed, in the taper's flame till it fell in ashes.
"Signor," she said, lifting the white atoms of dust and sifting them
through her fingers, "you may carry back these as my reply."
"Nay, I do not return," he answered. "And, Signorina, many things are
pardoned to one in--your condition. Recover your senses, and you will
find this so among others."
Then, as coolly as if nothing had happened, he spoke of the affairs
of the day, the tendency of measures, the feeling of the people, and
finally rose, kissed her hand, and departed.
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