To be opened immediately after my death by Paolo Rossi, my nephew and heir.

DOCTOR LUIGI ROSSI, head of the Scientific Department of the University of San Marco, set down in writing this narrative that it may be transmitted to you, my beloved Paolo, and read before you shall have entered the secret chamber, access to which may be gained through my laboratory only.

   This communication is personal. You know that you are my heir. My will must be made public, of course, because of the various donations which I have made to different colleges, universities, etc; but the bulk of my fortune is yours, yours also, and yours alone, the contents of the glass receptacle in the chamber up in the roof.

   This document is the history of that receptacle, and I require you to obey implicitly the instructions concerning it which I shall give. Much depends upon your fidelity. Yet young as you are, Paolo, there is already a firmness to the fibre of your mind, a tenacity and loyalty that I have long noted, which assures me that you will give to the completion of this work of mine all that I could wish. It is a matter of life and death, perhaps; nay more, it involves a scientific experiment, to witness the success of which I would unhesitatingly pledge all I have, all I am, life itself here on earth, and whatever may come hereafter.

   I knew, of course, when I began the experiment, that not I but another would witness its close. Would it be success or failure? You will know some day, Paolo, I trust. How I envy you! And how proud am I to bestow this great proof of my love, my confidence upon you. The fortune I leave you, Paolo, is dross: in itself, it will not make you happy; but the receptacle should bring to you, in case of success, the calm, the noble peace of mind which is the rightful reward of the benefactor of mankind.

   Ah, our boasted strength of will, our proud reliance on self! What does it amount to when I cannot so much as prolong this feeble old life of mine a paltry half century, now that my strongest curiosity is excited, now that I have made a wager with Nature, and Death will not let me wait to see who wins? Ah, well! Read now, my boy, and know the secret of that mysterious chamber you have so often longed to penetrate.

   I am eighty-two; I can live but a few months, perhaps only a few weeks, longer. Forty-five years ago I came into possession of that which rests in the airy chamber above. I was young then, but (what has vanity or an affectation of vanity to do with a dying man?) I had already attained some position. I might have stood higher had I given my best efforts at that time to recognized research, as I have since, chiefly that I might enrich you, my son, and so leave you free to employ the talents you have as best pleases you. But I was then secretly engaged in experiments which, I knew very well, would, if made public, shake what fame I had and bury the little candle of my scientific pretensions under the overwhelming rubbish of ridicule.

   I wanted to prolong life, Paolo; that is, not exactly to prolong it, for one's years are inexorably measured off. Fate has given to each of us just so many, and struggle, scheme, plan as we may, the sum will not be changed; but I believed that man might, under certain conditions, live his life when and how he wished.

   Has it never occurred to you, Paolo, that she — Fate — is a niggardly benefactor? She gives you the cup of life; she holds it to your lips. "Drink," she says, "drink now, and to the dregs." "But," you plead, "I may not like the draught; I may not care to quaff it all; is it permitted to sip a little now, and later again a little and —–" "Nay, nay," she commands, "drink deep, and drink now." There is no alternative even; one cannot peevishly push the cup away. And so, like gluttons who fill a bursting stomach and feed a palate that craveth naught, we drink the cup that's held to our lips — and make wry faces enough over its bitter contents.

   Yet, would I live. Life is all we know and living is all we have. I accept the number of years allotted to me, but I would live them where and how and when I pleased. This should be my compromise with Fate.

   Think of it, Paolo, to live one's childhood a naked boy, basking in tropic suns, with the blue water, the fountains, the dark foliage and the white of the marbles, a gorgeous feast of colour to abide for ever in one's memory. One needs to have a golden childhood to look back upon. I find my poor old wits straying, these past few years or more, to the things of youth. I forget the discoveries I worked so hard to make and prized so when accomplished; I forget the names of old associates who have laboured honourably and worthily with me; I forget the titles of the very books which bear my name. Your friends, Paolo, who come to chat an hour with old Rossi are all alike to me; I scarcely distinguish one from the other, and from day to day I forget whether 'tis this one or that who is merry or sarcastic or pert or pensive. I forget your mother's face, child, as it was when she died at your birth, but it lives for me forever as it was when she and I played together; I a great fellow, boy at heart but man in form and feature, she a baby girl, the delicate, late, last flower on the stem. Every detail of my childhood grows stronger and more vivid with me. I seem to be an old bow so bent with years that extremes of youth and age meet in me. My dreams are invariably of my childhood; old melodies come back to me that my mother sang to your mother; the old house and playmates dead more than half a century — these are the things that fill my thoughts. My old senses are dulled to the present but they retain the past — provided always it be far enough off in my life's perspective — with an intensity, a fervour that may make a literal second childhood for me if my life be much prolonged.

   Ah, you see how old I am, how I am failing, when in writing to you of what I risked my life for (and my soul's salvation, Fra Bozenta would say) I wander off in this way and make my necessarily long paper unnecessarily tedious.

   This was my plan then; to live till adolescence a Greek bathed in the most beautiful natural surroundings, uplifted by the most exquisite manifestation of art, an art which was as natural to the Greeks as building roads and bridges, buying and selling, spoiling and cheapening the beauty of Nature is to us. Then would I die for a space — to be awakened and to spend my early manhood in another century, as one of those great savage Gothic heroes, say, who swarmed down upon our forefathers here. I'd live my middle life in another kind of action: it might be as a great law-giver in another nation and another century. And I would spend the declining years of my life here in San Marco, I think, as I am doing now, with you near me, my boy, to keep the old sap still flowing in the gnarled and withered tree.

   Thus, you see, one could truly say he had lived. This should have been my choice; different natures would choose variously, yet to each would life be complete, a thorough experience of what the world has to offer, not a segment whose arc measures an infinitesimal portion of space, an equally insignificant point of time. Life is cosmopolitan, complete; not stationary, not cramped in the mould of one century and one place. It is a liquid which fits itself to various environments. In our stupidity, in our dull devotion to habit and custom, we get to take the form for the thing, the bowl for the vital, golden, immortal essence it for the moment contains.

  
   In my youth, Paolo, this thought possessed me. I dreamed of varied careers, of fuller experience which might be mine if — not if life were not so brief, mine has been long enough — but so consecutive. How to pour some of the liquid from the bowl without allowing its entire contents to slip away! How to sip at ease without swallowing all at a gulp and so to lose the divine flavour!

   I had heard of the Hindoos, the Yogis, who had learned the alphabet of the science I longed to master. I set myself to study their methods, and in a journey which I made in my thirtieth year, I learned all they could teach me. But their success was so paltry, so trivial, so unworthy — a beginning, nothing more. I determined to prolong the conditions these fakirs so easily produce, by means of carefully prepared drugs. Hath not Nature herself given man the hint, when she planted the hills thick with slumbrous poppies?

   I experimented untiringly, with animals, and secretly, of course. Ah, how I laboured during those years! For me there was no day nor night, no friends, no foes, no past, no future, only working-time to make fullest use of every moment Nature could spare me from the task of keeping myself alive. I gave up everything else. People began to nod their heads and remark sagely upon immature work. I had done my best, they said, already; nothing had come from me these past five years. 'Twas evident, the old way was best. And gray-haired professors who had scowled at me when I bade fair to be a rival, smiled upon and patronized me, now that I had shown myself to be nothing but a prodigy, a tree which had borne fruit prematurely and so might be considered merely a sport of Nature, a scientific abortion.

   As I said before, I was thirty-five when my opportunity came. By this time my skill was such that I could stupefy a rabbit, so as to keep him dormant indefinitely if I wished, and wake him to life again, his functions as perfect, as unaltered, as when I took him from the warren. In my laboratory a kitten had been lying as if asleep, but breathless, for years. But man — would the drug affect man and for long periods of time? If not, it was all useless. Of what avail to outdo the Hindoo jugglers? What variety of experience could one attain by stretching one's life over a short period of time? The world moves so slowly, it takes centuries to change circumstances. I would rather live eighty years our way, rooted as a tree, helpless and narrowed in experience as a crab in its shell, than to stretch my knowledge over so small a space as my experiments with the animals seemed to permit.

   I had been working hard in my laboratory one day since sunrise, and toward evening went out, revolving all this in my mind, for a breath of air. As I walked dreamily along, my pace slackened, so preoccupied was I, and I must have come to a full stop, when an unusual occurrence brought me to myself. I was in the midst of a throng of excited men whose pushing and jostling made me a helpless part of the crowd. Their shouts and curses dissipated the last of my abstraction, and eagerly I peered beyond the mass of bobbing heads. One man was the focus of all their eyes, and now of mine. It was Zojas, the brigand, news of whose capture in the mountains had been brought to the city a week ago. They were taking him to the gaol, and I, whose habits of mind and body were all at variance with mobs and their violence, had been caught up, a straw upon the eddy of that turbulent tide.

   My height enabled me to get a glimpse of the outlaw's face, and its expression of mingled rage and defiance so interested me that I found myself elbowing this way and that till I was comparatively close to him.

   Just then the fury of the mob broke loose. Their curses were audible enough now; yells they were, and at every shout from the people the man's singular face seemed to brighten and glow with hate and defiance, just as a fire flames when one blows upon it.

   Suddenly a stone was hurled at him. Where is the being that can resist the display of courage? To my mind it hath ever seemed a rare, a noble virtue. The brigand's eyes blazed, and the smile that showed his strong white teeth was like the snarl of a wolf. His arms were bound behind him, but with a fine assumption of ease, he threw his shoulders back and, chin in air, burst into a mocking whistle, the tune of a popular song which celebrated his own exploits, and marched gracefully on. Was it not gallantly, wickedly done? Quick there came another stone and then another and another, and soon the missiles were flying from every direction while the guards hurried him on with a double-quick step.

   At last the fusillade went beyond bounds, and the soldiers, forming a square, in the midst of which stood Zojas, the blood streaming from a cut in his cheek, faced the mob. I found myself sword in hand charging with them on the cowardly crowd. I was mad with excitement and the ardour of the fight, bewildered at the sudden change from the quiet of my study to the midst of this screaming, cheering, cursing, mob. But through all the din and confusion I could not keep my eyes from Zojas. He was grinding his teeth and swearing, as he struggled violently to free himself from his bonds. All at once he caught my eye, and a flash of hope lit up his own at the sympathy and admiration the rascal's gallant conduct had brought to my face. "Lend a hand, comrade," he cried. "A brigand's oath — I'll not attempt escape; but let Zojas try his hand on that pack of dogs!"

   I can account for it only by my exceeding excitement at the time, but with a stroke of my knife I freed him and then, suddenly I lost sight of him and everything else, for something struck me sharply on the temple and I fell.

   I recovered consciousness only when the fight was over, and from where I lay I could see the guards marching the bandit off to prison. He had kept his word, fortunately for me.

   Then I crawled home, my head buzzing like a whole hive of bees.

  
   For some days I was ill, as much from the unusual excitement as from the effects of a small wound in the forehead; this thing was so foreign to anything that had occurred in my simple, almost conventual life. So I sat quietly at home till one evening a neighbour told me that Zojas was to be executed the following day at noon, in the great square before the palace.

   At my friend's words suddenly the whole plan came to me and, so soon as he had left me, I started for the prison.

   "He will not speak with you, Signor. He will not eat nor drink; for days he hath touched nothing," said the gaoler. "He will not speak to any one, not even to a priest, though to-morrow morning, may be, he will change his mind."

   "But perchance he will talk to Doctor Rossi," interposed a guard standing near, who had recognized me. "Why? Because they are old comrades, the Doctor and Zojas. Fought side by side, eh, Doctor?"

   Zojas was pacing up and down his cell with quick short steps, when we entered. But he turned sullenly and, retreating to a dark corner seated himself, without vouchsafing a word in answer to the guard's salutation.

   "Perhaps you will be good enough to leave us alone?" I said to the guard, slipping something into his hand and, in consideration of this, and perchance of the part I had taken in the fight not so long ago, he agreed.

   The bandit had raised his head curiously at the sound of my voice. When the door clanged to, he came forward and, recognizing me, held out a brown, sleek, compact hand. "Ah, comrade, what brings you here? It cannot be that a brave man like you wants to see how a caged lion looks. You do not want to fatten upon his moans — small comfort they've got from me, though! Zojas will die to-morrow at noon, but not a groan shall the cowardly San Marcans wring from him. His step shall not falter, his eye shall not flinch!"

   "Bravo!" I cried. But why I should have had any sympathy for this knave, who was twenty times a murderer, I cannot explain. He had been the terror of the mountain roads for years, as had his father before him. He was a smuggler of course, as well as a highwayman. He had robbed wealthy travellers, keeping rare prizes for ransom, and holding to his word with such unswerving fidelity that, were a man's friends not punctual to the minute, they might find a swinging corpse instead of him whom they sought. He had burned our villages, levied taxes on our peasants, plundering their farms and carrying off their women when they revolted. Yet he had been the idol of his gang, whom he had brought to a highly organized condition, as creditable to his talents as a leader as it was discreditable and shameful to our Government. He was the hero of romantic tales without number; his word (none knew better than I) was inviolable; he was celebrated for a rude sort of justice; he had been a despot with a sense of humour; he had played at being king, and only the limited extent of his dominions, the small number of his subjects, and the fact that he was at war with recognized authority had stood in the way of his success. Within certain bounds, though, he was absolute, this scoundrel with the dark handsome face (gaunt and drawn now with hunger and the worry captivity must mean to such a spirit) and eyes that I should not have dared to meet had my purpose been other than it was.

   Zojas seemed glad to talk, now that he had broken the spell. I called for wine, and we sat, the brigand and the respected Doctor of Philosophy, as boon companions, talking and laughing as though there were no morrow, no difference of mental or moral caste, no hereafter.

   It was only when a guard's face appeared at the wicket that Zojas's face clouded. "Ah! If I had ten fellows like you, comrade," he cried, and I chuckled in my sleeve thinking of my revered coadjutors of the University. "I'd burst these bars and then" — he made the motions of a rapid sword-fight — "pst, that for the guards! A malediction on them! And off for the mountains! But we would come back some day, and I think (Oh, the malevolence of his voice!) I think we would boil some of these San Marco bullies in oil — slowly — slowly —–" I half rose from the table but he was so intent he did not notice me. "—– very slowly," he continued smiling strangely, "as Giulia was boiled."

   "Giulia?" I asked.

   "A girl I'd stolen from the village who — well, who chose to stay. But she was unfaithful — for such a thing as Pietro! So I — punished her. It is that which brought me here. It is always a woman's fault when a man makes a fool of himself. For Pietro betrayed me to the soldiers, not because he loved her but because he envied me. I wish them — them, up in the mountains, joy of their chieftain! But what brings you here, tell me? They call you Doctor — what can you want with me? I need no doctor. Look!" And with a curious vanity he threw aside his coat and scarlet vest and, standing upright in shirt and short trousers, he challenged me to find a blemish in his trim strength, his grace, his perfection of physical development.

   "I am a Doctor in Science, Zojas," I explained. "I can see, of course, that you need no physician, but — but it is I who need you."

   "For how long?" he asked, sardonically checking off on his fingers the coming hours, and shrugging his shoulders at the short space of time remaining to him. "You are welcome, comrade. Zojas is at your command — till noon to-morrow, when he has an important engagement." In the air he rapidly sketched a hanging noose.

   "But if," I began, afraid yet to make my proposition clear, "but if what I ask of you should prevent your filling that engagement to —–"

   "So much the better," he cried springing to his feet. "Out with it! What is it? Quick, Signor, do you not see your words may mean —–"

   I shook my head. "No, Zojas, I have not the power to help you to escape, nor, to be frank, have I the wish."

   He looked at me resentfully at first, then gradually all the light died out of his face leaving the sinister mask the lines made when he was in repose, or thinking, or simply indifferent. Then he sat stolid, silent, his eyes bent upon the floor, as if he had forgotten my presence.

   And thus we both sat in silence, till he looked up suddenly and said, "What are you thinking now?"

   His abrupt, imperious question demanded an honest answer. "I was thinking," I said half smiling, "that if circumstances had been different, if chance had willed that my father had been yours and yours mine, it might have been I that is to be hanged to-morrow noon, and you — and you —–"

   "Yes, and I?"

   "And you who wanted to make an experiment upon a man who had no further use for his life."

   He gave a long, low whistle of astonishment. Then rising, he came toward me as if half fascinated, half-repelled. He looked at me so oddly, with such a mixture of awe and of curiosity that I burst into a laugh. "I thought you were in earnest, Signor," he said with a sigh of relief.

   "I am. Listen. I have the power to suspend life in animals and to reanimate them. This I know. Whether I can do as much with man and for how long a time, is a problem I have never had the opportunity to solve."

   "I can well believe it. And you want Zojas —–"

   "You have only fourteen hours more to live. Of those, you sleep six or seven."

   "No, but five."

   "Five, then, will be spent in sleep. That leaves nine hours of consciousness with a shameful death at the end. I offer you in exchange a painless death now."

   "Now? Gésu!"

   "You lose nine hours, but you cheat the hangman, the San Marcans, whom you hate, Pietro, perhaps, who disguised will be watching."

   "Ah, for one chance at him!" he snarled.

   "And you wake, if my theory be correct —–"

   "Yes, I wake?"

   "One hundred years from to-night."

   "Bah!" He laughed out scornfully, doubtingly.

   "Or perhaps never," I added.

   There was a pause. "Tell me about it," he said at length, in so childlike a way that for the first time I hesitated; I seemed to be taking a base advantage of the man's simplicity as well as of his unhappy strait. But in a moment I forgot my scruples.

   "It is nothing," I said. "You will lie down as if to sleep. You will wake — or you will never wake. That is all. I swear to you to get possession of your body or, failing that, to see that life is really extinct before —–"

   He shivered and the blood forsook his face. Again there was silence, which he broke by laughing out suddenly. "And you, signor," he asked, "where will you be, comrade, a hundred years from now, eh? You will never know whether Zojas sleeps sound or ill."

   "No, I shall not see the end, though I too would die to-night could I be satisfied about it."

   "You would! About, a thing like that?" he repeated wonderingly. "Why, what is the good of it to you, or to anyone, save Zojas, and only perchance for him?"

   So then I told him what I have written here, Paolo, about the stale simplicity of our lives and of what might be could one take a sip from the goblet of life at one time and then at another. But the wine I had drunk, or the wound which still throbbed at my temple, or the strange surroundings and the hour, or the prospect of at last playing for high stakes, or the peculiar, intent, silent enthusiasm of the man led me on till I was revealing to this highwayman and murderer, who was yet so strangely companionable, so superior to one's conception of such a creature, the thoughts and hopes and dreams, the very philosophy of my inmost life, which not even those nearest me suspected.

   When I finished speaking I saw in his eyes the reflection of the emotion my own eloquence had roused in me. There was something almost lofty in his manner as he walked calmly toward the pallet in the corner, stretched himself at length, and said simply, "I am ready."

   I confess that had I been more my usual self, had I not been so wrought up with nervous, excitement, I might have faltered now; but the man's quiet courage, his calm trust in me, the stillness of the cell, the very tension of my mood carried me on. I had mixed a powder twenty, yea, thirty times the strength of any dose I had hitherto given; now I dissolved it in wine, and bending over I handed the drink to him.

   He took the cup. "Addio, comrade," he said thoughtfully. "Strange that such a trade as yours should make such men as you!" With a quick motion he raised the cup to his lips, but suddenly put it down again.

   "One question — was it for this that you helped Zojas yonder when those San Marco cowards stoned him in the square?"

   "Oh, can you think —–" I began; but before I could finish, he proved his faith in me by throwing back his head and draining the cup at a draught.

   For a moment his eyes remained questioningly fixed upon mine; then they glazed, the lids fell, and sensation for him was past. With a sort of fascinated terror I watched the peculiar reflex action which the drug produces, with which my experiments with the cats and rabbits had made me so familiar. The dose had been so powerful; I found myself shivering sympathetically with the poor fellow lying there. Ah, how weak we are! I had planned and hoped for this opportunity. A week ago I would have given all I possessed for the chance to try this experiment. I had even carried out my part in a species of exhilarated trance; yet now that it was done, I regretted it and caught myself wishing that my subject had been some other than this winning young scoundrel. Familiar as I was with all the symptoms, and secretly delighted to find them magnified but unchanged in the human animal, they horrified me now. Yet almost mechanically I bent over his still breathing body and attended to the physical details which are necessary to complete the experiment. When I left the prison it was within half an hour of midnight, and Zojas lay still and breathless; his heart had ceased to beat and his body was gradually losing warmth.

   This is all, Paolo. I had some difficulty in getting possession of the body, for the wrath of the populace at being defrauded of the great sight of his execution (you know the hot temper of our people) was such that they clamoured for the bandit's body, that they might tear it to pieces. I was questioned, of course, by the gaoler and the guard, but as they had transgressed rules in permitting me to remain so long and alone with their prisoner, my visit to Zojas was never made public, and it was believed that he had contrived to secrete about his person some peculiar drug, the effect of which puzzled the wise physicians of San Marco.

   And well might it puzzle them, for no man save myself could explain its manufacture. To you, Paolo, shall it be left to endow the world with this strange, potent medicament. Directions for its preparation lie in the casket above, beneath Zojas's head. I have purposely arranged that not even you shall know its ingredients till the time be past. If my experiment prove a failure, it is best for the world that the secret of the drug die with me; should I be successful, it will then be time to make its constituents public.

   For forty-seven years now, Paolo, Zojas has slumbered aloft in the grotto-chamber, where by certain mechanical contrivances, to whose perfection I have given great care, the temperature and the composition of the supplied gases never vary. I ask you, however little faith you may have in this experiment of mine, whatever scruples, religious or otherwise, may deter you, to see that he rests under precisely the same conditions fifty-three years longer. You will observe that entrance to the interior receptacle is impossible without deranging the apparatus. You will therefore not be tempted to pry too closely, and thus danger of accident is reduced to a minimum.

   Knowing your fidelity, and the love your bear your old uncle, I do not for a moment doubt you. Yet neglect not the slightest detail of what I ask of you. Further directions you will find upon the inside of the door which leads from my laboratory to the chamber beyond.

   While you are young, Paolo, make such provision that in the event of your death, another's sincere mind and another's skilful hands shall fulfil my directions no less faithfully. But we are a long-lived race, we Rossis; I doubt not it will be your good fortune to see the end of this. At times, I am sure the result must be success; at other times I am craven, and am tempted to confess all to Fra Bozenta, that he may absolve me. Yet, take this last not too seriously. I am unrepentant, at heart, Paolo, and were there any adequate payment for an instant's return of the passed spirit to life again, Satan might have my soul for all eternity, could I be with you at ten o'clock fifty-three years from to-night.

PAOLO ROSSI, write this memoir that the knowledge of the strangest of mortal experiences may not die with me. Yet so convinced am I of my enemy's wonderful foresight and the unscrupulous use he will make of his power, that I feel sure no other eye (save his, and then but for one reading,) will ever see this paper. Could I fulfil my intention, this should reach your hands, Raffaelo, to whom it will be addressed. But this man aims at universal dominion; there is no limit to his ambition; is it likely that he will allow a scrap of paper to stand in his way?

   I was seventeen years old when my uncle Luigi died; I am now seventy-eight. I shall not live, nor do I care to live, to be seventy-nine. Nearly seventy years of my long life, as I look back upon them, are commonplace, the ordinary career of a comparatively successful man, born of good family, with wealth, influential connections, and a fairly able mind. Were it not for the occurrences of the past ten years my life could add absolutely nothing to the sum of the world's knowledge, for, though respected and deferred to in my time, there have been greater politicians, more successful statesmen than myself, and the name of Paolo Rossi will tell nothing to succeeding generations.

   But these ten years! As I look back, they seem so crowded with strange experiences that it bewilders me merely to attempt to set them down.

   The very day my uncle died I mounted to the grotto chamber. My boyish curiosity was so excited, my imagination was so inflamed by that which he had written, that I could not eat nor sleep nor rest till I was satisfied. Indeed, the thought of the sleeping bandit was the only thing that could distract my mind from its burden of sorrow; for I devotedly loved and sincerely mourned my great uncle, and there never lived a man worthier of the deepest affection, the highest honour, the most lasting esteem — but I need not praise him to you, Raffaelo.

   My eyes were red with weeping and my brain was hot and troubled, but as I turned the curious key and entered the lofty chamber, my grief seemed to fall from me. So still, so cool, so airy, so majestic was the place where the bandit had lain nearly half a century, my own personal woe became trivial and passing, the common universal sorrow, in the austere presence of death personified.

   I carefully closed the door behind me and stepped to the middle of the room. There, enclosed in a sealed glass case, so large it was like a small crystal chamber, was Zojas.

   He lay upon a sort of couch, his body relaxed but seemingly not rigid, his hands by his side, his head thrown slightly back. The face and hands lacked something of the ghastly pallor of death, and this fact aided, perhaps, by the soft dim light, which fell only from above, made the figure look like that of a sleeper, not of one who had died more than thirty years before I was born.

   My heart fluttered as I stood gazing upon him and, panic-stricken, I was on the point of turning to fly when the exceeding grace and beauty of the figure struck me; the pose of the shapely body so well displayed in the soft, full flowing shirt and tight knee-breeches, the large bright red kerchief knotted loosely about the bare throat, the haughty serenity of the large head with the inscrutable frown of the eyebrows, the stern mouth and chin, and the dark, thick hair falling over the brow. "Oh, to see him open his eyes!" I exclaimed in my agitation, and then, fearing that my wish might be granted, I stumbled from the room, hastily locking the door behind me.

   I never visited the room from curiosity again. There was something about this man, so feared during his life, which made his rest respected after death. Only when compelled to renew the supply of chemicals piped into the glass case did I mount to my uncle's laboratory, which adjoined Zojas's chamber. But through all the years there was never a change. The bandit lay there calmly waiting resurrection, all function arrested, but seemingly not for ever. Some slight thing — the wonderful powder my uncle had given — had stopped the mainspring, but the watch was there, apparently as capable as ever. When this strange numbing power should lose its effect, when the hundred years should have passed, would the wheels revolve again, the hands move, the watch resume its busy record of time?

   That grand old uncle of mine had already achieved a miracle, for there was not the slightest symptom of decay. Zojas's body lay there unaltered. His soul — ah, whither had it flown? And suppose my uncle's experiment a failure, what would be the result, simply dissolution or everlasting, unchanging repose?

   In time the strange situation familiarized itself so that my mind no longer refused to admit the possibility of an awakening. In fact, I became so interested in the result that fear of death came to mean for me only the balking of my curiosity; and I grew to comprehend my uncle's intense interest, approaching his point of view more and more nearly as the years more widely separated us. I jealously guarded my health so that I should be the one to witness this great miracle; but I made careful provision in case I should die before Zojas's awakening, bequeathing my house and all its contents to you, Raffaelo. You will remember a conversation the meaning of which will be clearer to you now. This memoir and my uncle's last letter, which I have ever kept with me, I intend for you. Yet you will never receive them; of this I feel sure, yet do I write, that haply one chance in ten thousand may bring them to you.

   How would it have been if that one severe illness or some accident had carried me off, and you had taken my place? Who can say?

   As you know, I busied myself as other men, and the years brought me pain and sorrow, joy and gladness, my small share of fame and my portion of misfortune. I had inherited my uncle's fortune; I could not inherit the mind which had acquired that fortune and made the Rossi name venerated in San Marco and enduringly great throughout the world. I am more practical, less imaginative; my mind is of more tenacious if less elastic material. My uncle hoped that I might follow the profession he graced, and all my early education was toward that end, but my tastes and instincts were all unscientific. His mind spent itself on immaterial things; my life's energies found a natural outlet in action. My interest in political questions has ever been keen. I served his late Majesty and his father before him. But all that I have done, all that I have suffered in the cause of the state will be forgotten long, long before the glory of Luigi Rossi shall become dim.

II

   Carry your mind back, Raffaelo, ten, fifteen years. You will recall the unsettled state of our country. Everything seemed breaking up; respect for the Government, loyalty to the King — all had vanished, heaven knows where! Of a sudden, the people had gone mad. That which they had venerated they now derided; that which they had worshipped they now trailed in the dust; and the higher a thing had been placed, the lower it fell. As the King's minister I laboured with all my might to quell the disturbance, to turn the tide. I have been accused of patricianism, of despising the common people. They call me "Bloody Rossi," remembering how I stamped out rebellion in the west twenty years ago; but I failed to exterminate the rebels, as you know, as all the world now knows, and events hurrying on brought the crisis nearer and nearer. A few of us on one side, the brains, the experience, the culture of the kingdom, and the mad populace on the other; we striving to maintain the old state of things that had endured for centuries, under which our fathers and their fathers had lived in comfort and died peacefully, to preserve the kingdom and loyalty to the King; they surging against and smiting down every barrier we erected, crowding in upon us, driving us further and further back, insatiably exacting privilege after privilege, encroaching, entreating, threatening; riots in the southwest, rebellion in the mountains, and anarchy in the capital. The crisis came at length; they called upon our King to abdicate.

   I laughed aloud when the report was brought to me and, hurrying to the palace, I saw his Majesty. Ah, had he been such a king as his grandfather! I stormed, I ridiculed, I entreated, I wept; I begged to be put in command of the army and in six months, I swore, we should be at peace. The result was merely what it had always been. The King would consider what I had urged; the King would also consider what the Radicals had demanded. In the meantime his Majesty would wait; no good could come of precipitating matters; and he would consider and compromise, compromise and consider, till all option of considering and compromising was taken from him. At length, in despair, I resigned my post.

   He tried force when it was too late; he abdicated when it was too late; he was equally unsuccessful whether he tried to pacify or to punish. I knew the abdication would not content them, and when word came that the streets were blockaded and that San Marco, gone mad, was storming the palace, I felt that all was lost. For hours I stood behind the curtained window that fronts the square, not daring to show a light, watching the mob stream by. I would have given my life to be with the King, but I could never have reached him; I should have been hacked to pieces by the savages, had I shown myself.

   That night I thought my last hour had come, and after the streets became quiet I sat alone in the dark (the servants had all fled) waiting, cogitating, planning, regretting. Yet I knew that the monarchy was doomed, and with bitterness I realized that I had had my share of fortune's favours. After a long, prosperous life, misfortune had come to me in my old age, when I could bear it least. Death lay before me, I thought, a violent, hateful death — or escape and exile. It was like tearing up a tree long planted. We Rossis have lived in San Marco for four centuries and we have rooted deep; the old house was full of memories, freighted with stories of past ambitions, alive with the history of our race. It seemed easier to die than to leave San Marco for ever.

   Suddenly, as I sat there, a confused murmur came to my ears. It grew louder and louder, and presently the din and turbulence outdoors drew me again to the window. The triumphant people were returning. The glare from their torches flickered into my windows, lighting up the beautiful old, spacious, tapestry-hung apartments. The street was alive with armed men, and I could hear the steady tramp of the militia. I saw the King seated in his carriage, his benevolent, if somewhat weak, face, looking flushed but composed. Tears filled my eyes as I saw him so degraded, so abandoned to his fate. Loyalty, fealty, habit — what you will — tugged at my heartstrings, and I turned from the window burying my face in my hands.

   A shout from without brought me to my feet. Ah, the Guards, the faithful Guards! They had hurried to their King's assistance, and they poured down upon the irregular, half-armed mass of leaderless peasants, mowing them down like grass. The blood leaped to my face at the sight; I forgot my seventy years, and, dashing out through the open window, I appeared upon the piazza, and, sword high in hand, cheered them on.

   A last chance and but a chance, I kept repeating to myself; for even should they rescue the King, what then? The tide of revolution had set in too strong. Would it sweep all before it, or might it yet be stemmed?

   How they fought! It seemed victory must be theirs. And so it should have been, for the mob wavered and fell back, and in a moment the Guards would have been victorious, had not a tall, swarthy savage leaped into the thick of it, bearing all down before him. I myself saw him seize a sword from a soldier, whom he felled with his naked fist. He sprang forward, waving his sword, turning to urge his companions on, and I caught a glimpse of a face that was half-mad, half-dreamy, alive with excitement, yet seemingly dazed and bewildered; a strangely foreign face but familiar, with dark flashing eyes that were fearfully compelling. The people dashed after him with a mad yell and he led them on, reckless, bullet-proof; a mark for death in his white shirt — he wore no coat — yet nothing stayed, nothing injured him. In a moment all was over, the guards slaughtered, dispersed, the mob triumphant again, bearing the King to his death.

   But now it was my turn. They had seen me on the piazza; they had heard my voice urging our gallant guards on; and with shouts of "Down with bloody Rossi!" they stormed the old place. So it had come. The stout oak doors, built in days when doors were made for just such usage, would resist for a time, but soon 'twould be all over with me. I stood still, breathless, awaiting them. What could an old man of seventy do against a mob like that? It was ridiculous. In my excitement I laughed aloud, hysterically, angrily, and the clock just then striking eleven, there was an odd, bizarre combination of sound at which I paused and listened.

   I don't know how it came to me; life had been so full, so troubled this past six months that I had forgotten what once had most interested me. The time I had looked forward to since boyhood, longingly, eagerly, had passed in the excitement of a falling kingdom and my own peril — the time for the awakening!

   And Zojas, what of him? At least I would know the end before I died, so that Uncle Luigi might not question me in vain when he and I should meet twenty, ten minutes hence.

   I hurried up the stairs, forgetting my own agony in anxiety on the dead bandit's account; for there were certain directions I should have followed, certain precautions I should have taken. As I sprang up the last short flight of stairs, I was struck first with horror and then with relief. Yesterday and to-day (all at once I remembered) I had forgotten to supply the chemicals which kept the chamber at the required temperature. Yet by a lucky chance my unpardonable negligence had been unwitting wisdom. I recalled now my uncle's directions, that I should permit the chamber gradually to resume its normal temperature, so that when the hour struck for the resurrection, the room should glow with warmth. And this was summer. How wonderfully fortunate!

   I reached the laboratory door and slammed it behind me; I passed on into the secret chamber. Ah! The room was warm, delightfully warm; the rays of the August sun had beaten down upon the roof all day, and now the atmosphere palpitated with heat, yet was exquisitely fresh, so perfect was the ventilation of the great, lofty apartment.

   I was so delighted that I chuckled with satisfaction; evidently not yet had good fortune deserted the house of Rossi. I lit the lamp and looked around.

   Zojas was gone!

   But how was such a thing possible? Who could have removed the body? Who knew of the existence of this chamber but myself? Bewildered, I put my hand to my head and tried to think.

   I remembered having opened the glass case several days before, when, in fulfilment of my uncle's orders, I had made preparations for the resuscitation. I had restored the tongue to its place, removed the specially-prepared cotton from nostrils and ears, placed liquors and restoratives at hand and such apparatus as might be necessary, should breathing at first be defective. I recalled now how these preparations had absorbed me at the time, how I lingered, almost lovingly, over this strange work, wondering what the end would be. I hardly hoped for success; I could not bring my mind to realize that changeless, recumbent figure, upon which I had looked for half a century, rising, moving, living, speaking. Nevertheless, my curiosity was intense; something would happen — what?

   And after all these years of waiting, after my uncle's minute instructions, his foresight, his exquisitely complete arrangements, the perfection of circumstance for such a trial, my selfish preoccupation of yesterday and to-day, the cruel chance that had brought about my King's downfall and my own, must happen upon this very day — almost at the very hour!

   "Ah, Uncle Luigi," I cried, "can you forgive me? Your great work undone, your hopes blasted, your wonderful experiment a failure! And I whom you trusted, whom you benefited, whom you loved as a son — I to blame!" My grief and remorse were so great that I fell exhausted, almost fainting, into a chair.

   Then suddenly there came a crash; the door had given way! Again I had forgotten. Here was I, a man of seventy weeping over the failure of a scientific experiment, not my own, while in ten minutes, five— nay, now, this very moment death stood before me. I heard them storming up the staircase, scattering from room to room like a pack of pestilent animals; destroying what they could never recreate, ransacking the fine old place that the Rossis have loved to beautify, which centuries of intimate association have rendered almost holy. They are at the door! Well, I have lived seventy years; it is enough. Life holds nothing more for me; I am ready.

   A crash! The laboratory door is down. Again, that tearing sound of splintering oak, and their leader, bloody sabre in hand, is before me. He is dressed oddly, theatrically, in white flowing shirt and dark knee-breeches, and about his neck — Good God! Am I losing my mind? Then the sooner death comes the better, for if Zojas's face were lighted up by such blazing, imperious eyes, if Zojas were living, this should be he!

   I rose and rushed toward him as he stood in the doorway, the swarming, eager crowd behind him. I believed I was going to die, and I sought death; my brain had borne too much, I was mad for rest. But at the sight of the room, the glass case, the couch, my face perhaps, he staggered as if struck. A shout went up from without. They thought I had wounded him, and swarming into the room they bore me down before them. I closed my eyes.

   "Off!" their leader yelled. "The prey is mine, harm him at your peril. Off, I say!" He struck about him with the flat of his sword and, raising me from the floor, stood before me. "Comrades," he commanded, beckoning the regular soldiers in, "take this man to the jail. Guard him, let him not escape, but kill, kill without mercy any one who tries to take him from you. Your heads or mine if you fail."

   When I reached the prison and was placed in a crowded cell (for the Revolutionists had dragged the city and caught all that was highest and noblest in their net) I fell exhausted upon a cot in the corner, and there despite my terrible situation, the stifling air of the close cell, and the excited, hushed whispering, the moaning and sobbing about me, I fell asleep. My age, the terrible fatigue, the strain of the past six months, and my overwrought condition had prostrated me.

   I dreamed all night, but not of my own troubles, nor of the King, nor of the country which was aflame with anarchy. I dreamed of Zojas, always Zojas, fighting like a demon at times, then sleeping his long sleep as serenely, as calmly as during the past years I had so often watched him. Time after time, in my dream, the moment came for his awakening. There seemed to be a faint glow upon that impassive, bronzed face; surely his great chest heaved, his long, brown hand moved, his eyelids twitched; at last I should see the eyes they hid. I bent over intent, breathless — and waked with a start, to turn uneasily upon my hard bed and fall feverishly to sleep once more to dream the same dream again and again.

   Then my dream of the night became my delirium by day, for I fell ill, desperately ill; and through all that terrible time when the King was executed, my old associates in the ministry murdered, you and all my friends banished or in exile, my beautiful old palace razed to the ground, and the new government established, I was hovering feverishly at the brink of death, babbling of Zojas and my uncle Luigi — as dead to the great events that were taking place as though I had been a contemporary of my dead uncle and of the bandit who gave his life to science.

IV

   Ah, how slowly the aged come back to life! Even now I cannot disassociate the reality of that time from delirium. For a time, while I was recovering, I lived in a half-world where facts seemed monstrously unreal and fancy was all I had to build upon.

   Truth to tell, the world I had reëntered was so changed that a sound man might disbelieve the evidence of his senses. Our laws and customs had shaped themselves logically, naturally, through the course of centuries. Our form of government had rested upon a broad base — the great mass of common people below, and above, graduated with almost mechanical accuracy, the superior classes, labourers, merchants, seignors, the priests, the nobility, and at the apex of the governmental pyramid, the King. Now my poor weak, fever-sick brain must suddenly realize that all in a moment, in a mighty convulsion of society, the pyramid had been torn from its solid foundation, hurled aloft and thrown again to earth. But so great had been the force of the overturning that the apex had been driven deep, deep into the earth — where our martyred King lies buried. The royal princes come next, they, too, buried deep. Above, hardly venturing as yet to peer above the ground, comes the old nobility. The parvenus and the rich, who dare not yet proclaim themselves rich or noble, trample upon their superiors, while they in turn are trampled upon by the middle classes. And above all rages the rampant multitude, the ignorant, bestial populace — the people, forsooth!

   And how long, pray, can this unnatural state of affairs last? How long can the apex of the social pyramid point downward and serve as a base? Not long, not long; you and I know what the end will be. At first the broad base will lie absolutely level, unnaturally exposed to the light of day. And the ugly crawling things, which have germinated, pullulated in the crevices — where in the damp darkness the pyramid's base has rested close to earth, so long undisturbed — these now are at the surface. Now the demagogues rear their brazen heads; little by little they will press upon the mass beneath; each stratum will bear upon the one beneath it; and presently, little by little, the old apex will sink lower yet, and little by little, very gradually, a new pyramid will be formed, whose base shall be the old base of society. And when the space on the top becomes too limited, the monsters will turn upon and devour one another, and at length there will be a new apex.

   And who will stand on the top? — Zojas!

V

   The first time I opened my eyes with the light of thorough consciousness in them, my glance fell upon that familiar reclining figure. My lids fell wearily, so convinced was I that the phantom of my dream still pursued me; but at my troubled, weary sigh, the man on the couch arose and came toward me. "So," he said, "it is to be life and not death. Good! Doctor," he called to the physician standing by.

   My eyes rested upon him as if fascinated; my lips framed a question but I was too weak to utter it. He held a cup to my lips, which I drained, and then, with a wave of his hand, he sent the doctor and the nurse from the room, and we were alone. "You are a Rossi," he began eagerly.

   "And you, you are —–" I dared not say the name, so absurd, so impossible, so unreal it seemed. But the light leaped to his eyes and, quickly assuming a recumbent position his head slightly thrown back, his arms at his side, he lay for just a moment perfectly motionless. It was answer enough to my question.

   In silence we stared at each other. It seemed to me I should never look enough.

   "And now, comrade —–" he began.

   "No comrade of yours," I interrupted hotly. "I serve the King."

   "Bah! A better man than you I called comrade, your — not your father?"

   "My uncle, Luigi Rossi, the great scientist."

   "Ah! A man that, a good fighter, a brave comrade. As for your King —–"

   With that peculiar dramatic mimicry which seemed part of him, he held both his hands together high in the air, bringing them down with an accompanying swish that sickened me. I fell back faint upon the pillows; but with an odd tenderness he bent over me and gave me a restorative.

   "See," he said softly, and his voice now had the most caressing quality, "you are an old man, you are sick. Let us not quarrel, you and I. I owe my life to your uncle; he is my creator, a sort of kind, pitying Gésu who gives a man another chance. I saved your life three weeks back; I keep you alive now, for the people are slow to forget their wrongs and their wrath. Let us not quarrel, you and I."

   It would have been easy to do as he wished; there was something as magnetic about the man when he tried to please, as there was imperious and dominant when he spoke harshly. "But, in heaven's name, man," said I, "what quarrel had you with the King? How could you know aught of the struggle and on which side right lay and on which side wrong? Was it fair, was it honest, was it manly to fight without knowing for what you fought? And, tell me, what induced you to join the Revolutionists?"

   He threw back his head, laughing boisterously. Whatever he did, this strange creature seemed to do with all his soul; there was something so vital, so strong about his every mood. "The Revolutionists — the King; the King — the Revolutionists!" he repeated after me. "I need not tell you that Zojas never saw your King till a few weeks ago, when —–"

   But I held a shaking hand up to ward off his words. Some day I would know the details, but not from this man, who illustrates everything he describes with an aptness, a force that makes one shudder with the realization.

   "See!" he said kindly. "Suppose yourself Zojas — ah! you need not shrink; a better man than you could suppose himself a bandit. Perhaps," he went on musingly for a moment, "that is it, the difference between you and him. Had he lived he would have been for the people — Ah, well! . . . Now, then, caught like a wolf in a trap, in that prison where you yourself have been, Signor, Zojas drinks a bitter, freezing draught, looking all the time into his comrade's eye and getting courage there — not to die, Zojas needs not that — but courage for what might happen should the signor fail and Zojas wake beneath the ground. Oh!" He drew in his breath between his shut teeth. "But an eye like that — Gésu! If his life had been good for a score of years instead of half as many hours, Zojas would have trusted him. Zojas drinks, and then, quickly, he knows no more — till he wakes, bewildered. The noise, the shouts, the cries! For a moment I know not where I am, but think only that the hungry San Marcans wait without to see me hanged. I leap from the couch — the room is strange, a sorcerer's room with strange instruments, a queer smell; Zojas would be away from it all, but his legs shiver and quake like a baby lamb’s, his head throbs, and his heart beats as if Zojas were afraid. All at once I see the flagon of brandy. Some good friend has left it there — it was you? A thousand thanks, Signor, then for that; 'twas a good turn. I drink all, every drop; then I put the flagon down empty, and then — then I remember, I remember quick — Pietro's treachery, the fight in the street, the brave Signor comrade, the jail, the drink — everything. Yet I cannot be sure that Zojas has slept the long sleep, though the room is so strange and I know not where I am. Then again, rises the shouting from the street, and something in me stirs to be out and in the struggle, wherever it is. If the Signor has failed, Zojas tells himself, better that it should be like this than to wake below there — down in cold, dank earth. And now better be out in the open where a man has a chance to fight for his life, or it may be, escape. But if the brave, true-hearted comrade has indeed rescued Zojas from the gallows and the grave, then out, just the same, for Zojas has again a life to live. The good, rich liquor has set my blood flowing; Zojas is again a man. Out into the next room, which is strange as the first — I rush to the door — it is locked; I would have battered it down — as I did a few hours later, Signor, you remember — but I knew not what I might meet beyond. Then to the window, and out on the small balcony, and over the side, creeping, crawling, jumping, till I gain the roof of the next house. And here a jutting cornice lends a footing — Zojas comes from the mountains — and there a tall tree, a pipe leading down from on high, a tough vine — and at last, Zojas is free! Ah, but the people are up and roused! They snarled like a snapping wolf when Zojas passed on his way to prison yesterday — or a hundred yesterdays past; to-day it is a raging lion, which roars and shakes its tossing mane and lashes its tail while the very earth and air tremble. What has roused them? Zojas knows not, nor cares. For one thing he sees quickly — the lion roars not at him; it opens its horrid mouth for bigger prey. 'Lend a hand here,' calls one to me; 'your face is strange to me, but I see you're one of us.' He points to the red kerchief Giulia knotted about my throat that last evening; I do not understand, yet do I see that many men wear the colour and few, the soldiers among them, wear blue. Then, while I stare around, confused yet eager for my share, a red-capped dwarf is thrust aloft on the shoulders of his fellows. He is borne to a wine-shop and standing on a tall cask in front, which Zojas has just placed there at some one's bidding, he begins to talk to the people. Zojas listens with all his wits; in a moment, though the words are oddly clipped and now and then a strange one breaks the sense, yet he understands — no more king, no more nobles, no more taxes, no more duties. Why, then, 'twere no longer a sin to smuggle! 'Twas a lucky chance that brought Zojas here to listen to this wine-cash confessor, who in a moment remits half a man's sins. 'Then Zojas is with you, comrade,' I shout right lustily. And in a trice the crowd presses about me. We clasp hands, we cry aloud, we wave red swords in air, we drink again and again, and the wine is like new blood in my veins; we swear to be free. 'Down with the King and the nobles! Down with the taxes! Death to the Guards! The Guards — why, since Zojas was a lad these Guards have hunted him. They killed his father, they took his mother captive, they have been for ever on his track. Many, many times has Zojas hidden and skulked that they might be foiled; many, many hungry days, many cold, wet nights, a bullet here, a knife-thrust there, Pietro's treachery, too, — all this Zojas owes to these Guards. Death to the Guards? With all my heart! What music to the fox's ear, this death to the hounds! 'Up, comrades!' I cried in a fever, tearing the kerchief from my hot throat and waving it madly, as I would have waved a sabre if I had had one. 'Up, on! Zojas will lead you! On, on comrades! Death to the Guards! Down with them! Down with them!'"

VI

   I listened to the torrent of his speech, absorbed, entranced, as he half acted, half related his adventures. His eyes, his hands, his body, all told the tale, so vividly, with such dramatic effect that I could have sworn that I had witnessed it all. "Ah," he murmured, "it was a great fight!"

   "It was a cruel, terrible fight, and a cruel, terrible chance that raised up a man like you at such a critical time. A moment more and the Guards had won the day, and the King had been safe in some friendly neighbouring state."

   Zojas smiled. "Then," he said, leaning forward and watching me intently, "had you been in the strange chamber, Signor, at the moment of Zojas's awakening, and could you have known how he would stain those blue uniforms with red —–"

   "Zojas would have lain there to all eternity," I broke in vehemently. "I'd have strangled him with his cursed red kerchief as he lay there, rather than let him live to murder the King!"

   "It would have been the act of a coward to kill a sleeping man." I shrugged my shoulders wearily. "And it would have been treachery to your dead uncle, for —–"

   "But it would have been loyalty to my King. As to my uncle's experiment, what use can be made of the facts, now, the laboratory gutted by the men you call comrades, the secret for making the potion, the great man's notes, his instruments destroyed? Nothing remains of the great work — but you," I concluded bitterly.

   He laughed softly, unpleasantly. "Nothing but me — and you wish not even Zojas were left of it all?"

   "Most heartily."

   "Yet, Signor, you should not quarrel with Zojas for living. You, yourself, set the liquor there, and you —–"

   "I regret it with all my soul; I'd undo it if I could."

   "And then — your own life? What of that? The people would have torn you to pieces had they been foiled in capturing the King." Again. I shrugged my shoulders. "Look," he said, suddenly rising and walking about the room, "what good was there in your King? He was weak, a coward, not fit to live."

   "What can you know," I retorted, "of the King?"

   "You are right, Signor, in that. I know only of your King what my comrades tell me; but I knew another King, his grandfather. It is my King, the grandfather, that I help to kill when I slay your King. The old one is dead, unluckily; but Zojas would give up this new life of his, which is sweet with liberty and power and pleasure, could he but make that wicked old King feel what your King has felt. The old King, with his huntsmen in green and gold, their whips and dogs (who were better fed than we), his gilded carriages, his mistresses blazing in jewels, his courtiers flat on their servile bellies before him, and his cruel self fine in silks and velvets, grasping the last bit of hard bread, the last weak stoup of wine in the peasant's hut, taxing and taxing and taxing that his stomach might burst with dainties while we starved or sickened on food the cattle disdained, that he might have another marble palace while our wretched huts caved in, that his soft bed might be softer while we lay on damp straw, that his armies might be victorious abroad and he be called the Great King, that his San Marco should be a royal, beautiful city, fit for such a great king, while in the country, the roads were mire, the ditches dry, the bridges rotting, the fields waste, the towns ruined, the peasants living like rats ('Vermin that they are!' said the courtiers of our Great King) that his sons and daughters might have a train as royal as his own, while our barelegged children worked in the fields and begged and starved, and became bandits like me or women like Giulia, that a horde of beggarly counts and dukes and princes might dance on our bowed backs. Our Great King! Our Great King! Ah, Signor, could you have lived in those days and been one of us! Could you have seen men murdered slowly and lawfully by the King's fine gentlemen; could you have seen how they flogged us, robbed us, betrayed us, dragged from us everything to our last bit, sold us! We were slaves, things to wager over a game of cards, or to be presented with fine speeches to a beautiful woman, whose agent might squeeze and stint and rob us and his employer, and so fatten and thrive on our misery. Down with the King! say I. Death to all kings! With all his heart is Zojas glad, glad, glad to kill, at least, the weak, womanish grandson for the Great King's fault."

   Just as he stopped speaking there was a tap at the door and a soldier entered. He said a few words rapidly and in a low tone to Zojas, saluted and left the room.

   "I thought," I said ironically, "that you had sworn death to the Guards?"

   "To the old Guards, the King's Guards, yes. The new Guards are my comrades; Zojas is their captain, their chosen leader — or was till a moment ago. And now —–"

   "Now?" I repeated curiously.

   He laughed. "Zojas will trust you, Signor, with a great secret. War has just been declared and Zojas marches to the front, not as Captain of the Guards, but as General of the Division of the West."

VII

   You know, Raffaelo, everybody now knows what Zojas did on the frontier, what a fiend he was in war, how untiringly vigilant, how ceaselessly active, how his soldiers idolized him, how he won battle after battle, seeming to possess at once a marvellous genius for strategy as well as unparalleled audacity in action. You were still in exile, and you cannot remember how the city went mad over him on his return. The streets were illuminated; a mass of shouting, applauding people filled every avenue leading to the great square, and as Zojas on his great black horse rode by, the enthusiasm, the cries, the cheers — I have never witnessed any sight to equal it.

   The cortege passed the White Palace (which, you know, had been turned into a prison, after the mob destroyed the famous old jail) and from my window I could look down upon the strange, thrilling spectacle. Once I fancied Zojas glanced up at my window and lifted his plumed cap, respectfully yet mockingly; then the crowd streamed on and I was left alone to ask myself whether I was yet dreaming, or whether my brain had indeed been turned by misfortune — as I have discovered my jailers think, or pretend to think.

   Zojas came to me on the following evening.

   I can see one reason for the man's unbounded popularity; he seems able, chameleon-like to reflect, to concentrate in himself, the popular sentiments and ideals. When the maddened people burst all bounds and from their awed, childish respect for nobility, for the great and worthy things of earth, leaped to the other extreme of contempt for and hatred of everything civilized, this bandit, this monstrosity, this criminal, a condemned felon, an unreal being who exists only by a miracle, this man falling from nowhere, yet falling by the strangest chance upon his feet, was, though he knew it not, their ideal. He was quick, brave, a born actor, an experienced fighter, without respect for law or liberty or human life, Nature's own Red Republican, an outlaw by instinct, by breeding, by profession. He follows his instinct and it leads him — you and I may not live to see it, but who can misread the signs of the times?

   Now that, with the passing years the revolution has subsided, and with it its exaggerated notions of equality, its absurd levelling theories, its impracticable ideas fit only for Utopia or Bedlam, the standard of popular taste improves and one is permitted again to be, not a gentleman as yet, nor a courtier, but a soldier with all the dignity and superiority the soldier's profession may attain.

   The entry of Zojas into my chamber was a case in point. All at once, I hear a quick roll of drums, a smart clap of lowered bayonets, a word imperiously spoken, and the door flies open. Enter General Zojas, tall, handsome, martial — I had almost said noble, for the man is changed. I swear I know him not, save for the familiar cast of countenance which I have looked on in repose for half a century, for the dark, brilliant, commanding eyes which see everything at once, the fine poise of the shoulders and the mountaineer's elastic step with which the man comes to my side. For I will not rise to honour this mountebank, this pretender! He notes the omission, as he notes everything, ascribing it immediately to its proper motive, and smiles grimly. "Not yet content to let the old King die, Signor?" he asks, standing and looking down from his fine height upon me.

   I shake my head. "I'm too old a man to change — General," I add sarcastically.

   "And why not 'General?'" he asks, flushing and looking more like his old self. "Name a general who is a better soldier, who has done more for his country than Zojas, whose name means more to the enemy, whose men would do more for him than mine have done, aye, and will do, for me."

   "Yet your popularity will all go to pieces some day — the day my tale is told."

   He threw himself into a chair. "It is a madman's tale —–"

   "Then it is you," I interrupted angrily, "who have told the jailers —–"

   "What was I to do?" he asked softly. There was something sly and cat-like about him now. "Think of the chance I had, think what I have made of it, and what I intend to make of it. Should Zojas risk this fine, new life, when the tide is running all his way, instead of beating him back at every turn as in that other life, on the chance of an old man's holding his tongue?"

   "But that old man will find a way to defeat you yet," I muttered.

   "No one will believe you."

   "Can they not hunt up the old records to find out Zojas's identity? Ah, no, the jail, the old jail was destroyed — I remember; but will they not believe my uncle's written statement?"

   "You have it still? Anything you may ask Zojas will give for that," he said impetuously, stretching forth his hand.

   "My freedom?"

   He shook his head. "Zojas would deserve no more favours from Fate, did he do so foolish a thing as that. If you go free, Signor, what is your first act?"

   "To stir people up against you, to repeat my tale to exiled friends — who'll believe every word Paolo Rossi utters, though ten thousand bribed physicians of the Republic should declare him mad — to bring about an invasion, to restore the monarchy, to do with you what should have been done one hundred years ago — the gallows!"

   "If you were not of his family," he said, starting to his feet with such fury in voice and glance and gesture that for a moment I quailed before him, "I'd have your tongue cut out, cursed aristocrat!" His face was livid and, despite my own excitement, I dared not meet his eyes. For a long time he paced up and down, up and down, till at length, turning sharply, he stood again beside me. "Listen," he said quietly; "the King is dead. No Luigi Rossi, even if he lived, could bring him back to life. The country is quiet. Would you have civil war? With Zojas dead, who can satisfy the people? Your puny King's puny son? Never! The Republic will not become a kingdom for such a king. The people have risen, the river has overflowed its banks; now the flood is stilled once more, but no weak-armed boatman, no woman-king shall ever ride the troubled waters again. If there be a king —–"

   "It will be Zojas," I murmured ironically, but quite at random.

   He started, but said smiling: "And when Zojas shall be King, then shall Rossi be Prime Minister."

   "When Zojas shall be King," I said bitterly, "haply there'll be no Rossi left on earth."

   "Nay, nay," he said lightly, "the time may not be so far off. In new governments it is the army that names the ruler, and the army — ask the first boy in the streets — it is Zojas. And you Rossis cling long to life; he lived, they say, many years. Come, tell me about him, my old comrade. All that the world knows of the great Rossi, Zojas has learned; but, Signor, a truce for a time, what say you? Zojas would know everything; one who lived so near, and was so well beloved, must know. Tell me about him, all you remember; and then — you have friends, Signor, in exile, in prison, whose palaces have been taken by the government; is there not one among them who is dear to you? Ask for him what you are too proud to ask for yourself."

   And so, Raffaelo, I thought of you, and before long I found myself talking to this enemy of mine, of my country, and of my dead King, in a fashion rarely intimate for a reserved old bear like me. Ah! strange, isn't it? But in that glowing, interested face before me, in the quick, almost tender comprehension that leaps to his eye when I speak of my uncle, even before the words fall from my lips, in a certain personal pride with which he hears of the man's greatness of soul, his gentle modesty, his faithful, simple, grand old age, I seem to see in Zojas my Uncle Luigi's son, the product of his body as he is of his mind, the child who might just so have cherished and reverenced his name. You know how I love to talk of my uncle; a sort of vanity is in it, my enemies have said, by which I hope to shine in the reflected light of his greatness; yet when Zojas is the listener I need no apology, for his pleasure and pride are as great in listening as are mine in narrating.

   And Raffaelo, see how one weakens as he ages! Here am I in prison (yet, to be honest, my jailer is but my loyalty to a dead King, and I fear, a dead cause) and day after day comes my great enemy to visit me, and we talk — not always of Uncle Luigi, nay, oftener of statecraft, of history, of governments, of noted men, of great rulers and the secrets of governing as well as of the mistakes which have cost kings their thrones. And though I feel that as he sits opposite me, observing and attentive, this man, young in book-lore but old in experience and in handling men, his wits sharpened by peril and outlawry, his naturally keen mind quickened and stirred by the great events through which he is passing (himself a great factor in these great changes) and the opportunity no one sees better than he, which this ploughing up of our old soil gives to the young, vigorous sprout to spring up and crowd out the old stock — though I feel, I say, that this man, with his wonderful faculty for absorbing and digesting knowledge, is drawing from my old head the wisdom stored up from half a century passed among books and diplomatists, courtiers and kings; though I can see his mind grow and develop like a tree placed in new ground, yet is there something which piques and attracts me in this powerful, virgin mind, untainted by idle theories, ignorant of commonplace, stereotyped argument, undulled by routine study and unbent by uncongenial application, which moves straight upon its object, unhampered by rule or precedent, with a natural wealth of metaphorical speech, a freshness of illustration, an undaunted self-confidence, a simple, forceful logic that puts me on my mettle.

   He stands apart from his contemporaries, as it were upon a pedestal of his life a century ago — to us a barren recital, often told, but to him a living experience; and he weighs the events of to-day with a mind sure in perspective, sound in practical things, and yet audacious by habit and natural bent.

   Ah, Raffaelo, the most comical sight in this mad world, I think, is old Rossi arguing with Zojas, knowing that he is educating and arming his enemy, yet unable to resist the temptation to battle mentally with this young barbarian giant, who will — I see it — be the Carthage to my Rome.

VIII

   I find that although my apartments are most comfortable, my meals well-cooked and well-served, my jailers like well-trained, obedient servants, although I have my books, my wardrobe, lamps, and even flowers, one thing is denied me — communication with the world. I cannot see my friends nor let them know my state; of them I hear from the journals principally, and it is not pleasant reading. Biagi, whom our King so loved, so loaded with benefits, Biagi will float with the tide; he accepts a post under the new administration. Georgio, who was Minister of War in my time, is also Minister of War for the Republic which he tried to defeat, and failed. Cujus will be pleased to accept his old embassy; his wife and daughters appear at the President's palace. The daughter of Rivardi will marry the son of the parvenu who struts in my old shoes, and they will live in the gingerbread mansion erected on the spot where the old Rivardi palace stood for centuries. Bah! It almost reconciles me to spending the rest of my years in prison.

   Truth to tell, I know not what I would do, should I some day be told that I am free. The world I knew, the men I respected, the cause for which I laboured, the habits of my old life — where are they? I am unfit for this new, this mushroom state which has grown up over the grave of the old.

   Zojas sleeps a hundred years while the world slowly ripens for his opportunity; but in a few years the world has swept past, leaving me stranded. A few years ago I was the King's Prime Minister, a post I had held since the old King's death. I was influential, esteemed, on my own account a little, greatly for my family's sake. I was wealthy, and had wealthy and noble connections, was known personally to every man of importance in San Marco; and now, truly, if this evening Paolo Rossi were to walk the streets from here to the Palace, who would recognize him or, recognizing him, not be afraid to manifest any sign of friendship for the unchanging foe of the Republic? Nay, I could not even find my way, I fear. Whole streets have been burned, landmarks demolished, beautiful mansions, great historic buildings, priceless works of art, millions upon millions of value lost to the nation, and yet, and yet . . . Already have our people built up where ruin was, painted beautiful pictures to hide the space where hung the old, created anew the things of luxury, planted trees where trees were torn up by the social hurricane. Yes, deeper scars than those Nature or even a state may carry, the wounds of the human heart, are beginning to heal. I, myself, am spoken of (when not utterly forgotten) as more Catholic than the Pope, an old bear who nurses his sore head and growls at others that they do not do likewise.

   And who has worked this great change? Who has brought peace and order out of anarchy and civil war? Who but Zojas! Zojas, who was content to be one of three Directors when peace was declared, but who now is three in one — the State, the Army, the Legislature. A powerful trinity!

   This strange being who has passed through twenty years' mental growth in five, whose every step has been in advance, who is unhampered by social ties or previous policy, who knows intuitively and works inexorably, who feels but one passion, ambition, and bends his whole superhuman energy, and his country's, to attain it — what can withstand him? He might be wrecked by a confidant, but he trusts no one — save perhaps me. He might be overthrown by a jealous rival, but the terror that his name inspires makes that improbable. He might be slain by a frantic anarchist, or some old unreconciled loyalist, but the entire nation is his body-guard. The people adore him. About him there has grown a superstitious idea, which grovelling peoples have from time immemorial loved to associate with their ruler. The people's choice must be king by grace of God, or he must be God himself, to be worthy to rule so great and good a creature as the many-headed monster, forsooth! They will trample upon and defile their god if he be not stronger than they; but if he ride them mercilessly, if he spare not the whip and the spur, then jog they contented along. It is for the master to consult his own pleasure.

   So in the ignorant peasant's mind, the mysterious, sudden appearance of Zojas upon the fateful day of the King's capture, has about it something magical. God has sent them a leader; therefore he, himself, must be god-like. Zojas knows this, and fully appreciates the advantages which, in the common mind, accrue to one who is surrounded by mystery. Though he laughed when I taunted him with it, yet do I know this is an additional reason to him for keeping me here.

   Since his elevation the world has grown curious about Zojas. Yet nothing as to his ancestry can be traced — the old jail with its records was destroyed, you know. There is no babbling companion of his immaturity to destroy the illusion which surrounds the hero, no fond relative to make the great man ridiculous; no records or memoirs to blot or cheapen his fame; no time of probation, when he starved or begged or curried favour, to bring him nearer to humanity. And so he stands aloft, apart, in a golden maze of success and glory, a being very human but god-like, a leader, an avenger. And his fame will grow greater with the passing years; he will be judged wholly upon the enduring strength and excellence of his achievements; and not even I can gainsay these.

   When last Zojas came to me, in the evening as usual, he brought with him plans for the restoration of the old Rossi palace. It will be built upon the old site, and is to be at once an advanced school of science and a monument to my Uncle Luigi. A monument to Luigi Rossi, erected by Zojas; such is the inscription that will stand over the great wrought-iron gates. My uncle's fame will live for centuries — though the world may never know his most wonderful achievement — and his name linked with that of Zojas shall go ringing down the silent corridors where lesser great men lie forgotten.

   "To-morrow the architect shall come to consult with you, Signor," said Zojas. "It pleases you?"

   "Yes," I answered slowly; "yet no more than it pleases you, I fancy."

   He laughed out boyishly at this. "And what will the world say of the man who builds a monument to one Rossi while he keeps the other imprisoned?" he asked.

   "Nothing," I replied; "the people have forgotten Paolo Rossi."

   "Yet did Paolo Rossi wish to remind them —–"

   "He might take service under a man whose life is forfeit to the State, who cheats justice with every breath he draws, who, while he lives —–"

   "Oh, enough! Surely Zojas is losing his wits if the whole world's applause tastes bitter upon his lips, because one old man refuses to absolve him!" he cried rising to his feet in anger. "And, after all, who has consecrated you priest? Has Paolo Rossi never sinned, is there no weight on his conscience, is he so sure of every thought, of every act? Or is it not because the law has always been behind his hand that he does not question his own guilt? Imagine Paolo Rossi," he hurried on, "with his ability to play upon men, of which his old associates still speak, to pit one against the other and so gain his point, with all his love for power and place and ease and luxury; is he so great that, had he been denied these things he craved so ardently, he would have refrained from bending others to his will, from twisting the law if he could, and failing that, defying it? What, too, of the rebellion in the West and Rossi's manner of suppressing it, what of the tales they tell of matters of policy so dark, so dishonourable —–"

   "They lie, then," I interrupted angrily. "I served my King faithfully; I worked for him as a man of the world, not as a dreamer with impracticable ideals. But no man lives who can point to a stain upon Rossi's name."

   "Nor lives there the man who can find aught to blemish the name of Zojas.

   "Bah! You quibble," I exclaimed petulantly.

   "Stay a moment. You yourself, Signor Rossi, my inveterate enemy, my bitterest critic, my unappeasable foe, tell me — can you name one action of Zojas, which, did you know nothing of that first life, would prevent your taking his hand?"

   "But I do know that life, and —–"

   "And so did Luigi Rossi."

   "But could he have foreseen the future, despite his thirst for fame, his keen interest in his great experiment, his hope of benefiting mankind, he would have sacrificed all rather than let loose a man like yourself to —–"

   "And yet these were his words; Zojas hears them now as he heard them that last night, when Rossi opened his warm heart and his great mind to a condemned murderer. Listen; these words were the last Zojas heard before he lay down for his long sleep — well might he remember them! 'Man, it hath long appeared to me, is but the creature of his time and of his opportunities. You,' said he to me, 'that are at war with all that lawfully exists, are, it may be, but the revolt of a nature born in unpropitious times, the twisted growth of a seed whose planting-time came too late or too soon. There must be room for all men. He that lives and dies a criminal to-day, might have lived and died a martyr, a saint, a benefactor, had chance so willed it that his soul had found or might find its rightful place. In you I seem to see the energies, the natural power, which, properly directed, might have benefited your fellow-men. Fate hath strangely ordered it that the water which might have turned the wheels of many mills, which might have flowed on peacefully, making a green and smiling country, shall dash itself madly against its boundaries, overflowing and desolating the land. Should this work of mine, by some great good fortune, prosper, it may be that the stream will find its proper course, and that the gifts, with which Nature has so richly endowed you, shall be returned to her and spent in her service.'"

   He had been standing as he spoke, and for a moment after he had finished, Zojas stood in silence, considering the words, yet waiting, too, for my reply. But I could not speak; my uncle's words, delivered with that intensity of speech, that picturesque manner which characterized Zojas's every utterance, seemed to be vivified and full, thrilling with significance. In his earnestness, unconscious, himself, of mimicry, Zojas had spoken in my uncle's very voice, the voice I had not heard for more than half a century; and as I sat overcome with emotion, Zojas left the room.

   I have not seen him since. Our strange sort of companionship, which has lasted so many years and which was made up of such various elements, is at an end. And, looking back, I am at a loss to know what element was strongest; whether it was enmity, or the interest the teacher feels in the pupil whose genius makes work a pleasure, whether it was admiration for the man's power to accomplish, to realize his dreams, or whether it was mutual interest, a fitness he to govern and I to be the instrument of his genius, a common object which, in other circumstances, might have made us two fellow-workers.

   My life has become more lonely, more contracted since then, and it is partly to lighten the tedium of the long hours that I have, from time to time, written this memoir.

   To-morrow is the day fixed for the dedication of the Rossi monument. Something in Zojas's manner, the last time I saw him, assures me that he meditates some surprise for that date. The man is clever enough to see the value of a good situation, and each step he has taken toward his goal has been marked by what in another would be a somewhat vulgar theatricalism, but in Zojas seems but the proper setting for a classical drama, the manifestation of an intensely dramatic, picturesque nature.

   What will be the end? I shall not live to see it, yet certain am I that rest, satiety, the peaceful, quiet pleasures of content are not for such a being as Zojas. Where he will find scope for his active mind, in what direction his restless, craving intellect will develop, whether he will further aggrandize our country or relentlessly impoverish it, whether he will sacrifice the people or lead them on to greater victories — my poor old brain refuses to answer. The man has not lived forty years, yet who will dare to set a limit to the height to which he may rise? He can look back upon no failure, and though he lack the experience misfortune so plentifully bestows upon her child, yet is he undaunted by dampening possibilities. His arm, his brain are not paralyzed by the thought of defeat; he knows it not. For him the result will be, must be, success; the only question is, to what issues.

   I sit here a prisoner; yet the one free man in our unhappy country of voluntary slaves who realize not their servitude, for I dare speak the truth. Either I am indeed mad or my countrymen are blinded, fascinated, enthralled by this strange being, whom a stranger chance has brought to rule over them.

   As I sit here in the melancholy twilight, half-dozing, half-dreaming — for I am old and world-weary — a messenger enters with all ceremony. He is from Zojas, one can tell. Trust the parvenu ruler to be a greater stickler for form than the son of a hundred kings! He hands me a paper. The note is short; only a few words, yet to me how full of significance! I had not expected it so soon, yet so old a statesman might have foretold more accurately.

   "The answer is, 'No,'" I say to the messenger, and he bows and withdraws.

   I see what the morrow's surprise is to be; I know why he has chosen to-morrow. He wishes to link himself closer to my uncle's name. He has an almost superstitious reverence for the great man whose creation, so to speak, he is. Ah, my country, may that reverence influence the man in whose hands thy destiny lies! May it soften the savagery of his nature! May it broaden the intellect which hath built up fame for itself in raising thee from thy humiliation! May it make him less a conqueror and more a father to his people! May it refine and elevate a nature which — even I must admit it — which lacks so little, now that the sun of success sweetens and sanctifies it, to render it truly great!

   I smooth the little paper over my knee, as I sit here alone and lonely, folding my dressing-gown about me, for the sun is gone and the evening air is chill to old blood. And when the lights are brought, I read the words once again, bitterly, sneeringly, yet wistfully:

   "Will Rossi be Prime Minister?"