"The Signor Marchese is tired and would sleep."

The "maestro di casa" effaced himself, leading the way, on tottering feet, through a long suite of rooms, into a corridor lined with statues and Etruscan pottery.

They came at last to narrow stairs, built in the thickness of the wall, mounted these to another pa.s.sage and paused before a double door.

Within was a bedroom with marble floor and deep-set windows draped with silk. A stove was burning and candles gleamed, but the place felt cheerless and rather damp: magnificent, but strangely bare, the high walls discolored with age.

Another servant appeared with a tray and a steaming tureen of thick red soup. McTaggart welcomed it where he sat at a round table before the stove with sandwiches and fruit arranged in heavy dishes of silver-gilt.

The bread, he thought, tasted sour, but when the man filled his gla.s.s with a golden wine, clear and sparkling, he drank it down and his eyes shone.

"What is it?" he asked Vanni--"not champagne?" The lawyer smiled.

"Asti Spumante--The late Marquis was well known for his cellar. And the dried figs and oranges and the goat's milk cheese are from the estate."

"Excellent." McTaggart approved. "Won't you have a gla.s.s with me?"

The old man was visibly pleased. He propounded an elaborate toast.

"And now, I think, with his permission, I will retire." He bowed low.

"May pleasant dreams wait on slumber." The door closed gently behind him.

McTaggart drew a deep breath, glad at last to be alone. He finished the wine and began to smoke, his cold feet planted against the stove.

He could not quite free himself from the spell of a fairy-tale; this strange arrival in the night into a mediaeval land.

He glanced round him at the room, with its painted ceiling and comfortless floor and the huge bed of gilded wood shrouded with blue brocade.

He began sleepily to undress, but a low tap came at the door.

"Come in!--Entrez!--whatever's the word?"

Beppo appeared with a slim, dark youth.

"Ecco Mario." He explained. The newcomer bowed and stood, expectant, gazing respectfully at his bewildered new master.

McTaggart hunted for a phrase.

"Non capisco." He looked triumphant and immediately old Beppo smiled and fell back on pantomime.

He turned and took from Mario a long garment in thin batiste, embroidered at the neck and wrist, with a breast-pocket where a monogram was worked beneath a tiny coronet.

McTaggart struggled with his mirth. It was evident that his own luggage had been delayed at the closed Customs. This was a relic of his Uncle, destined for his use that night.

Mario bowed and disappeared to return with a small jug of hot water, ivory brushes and other articles destined for his master's toilette.

Solemnly he arranged the room while Beppo cleared the supper table.

Then, to McTaggart's vast relief, both men wished him "good repose."

He locked the door and hastily slipped out of his remaining clothes, proceeding to encase himself in the ridiculous thin night-shirt.

"Can't say much for my Uncle's taste!--it's only fit for a ballet dancer!" He caught sight of himself in the gla.s.s and chuckled with a faint disgust. The batiste strained on his broad chest and beneath the folds his legs appeared, long and sinewy. He shivered.

"Brr!--this _is_ the limit!"

He drew it up above his knees and gingerly clambered on to his bed; snuggled down among the pillows, thankful for the eider down.

The candle beside him was still alight and, before he leaned to blow it out, he glanced upward curiously at the dark draperies overhead.

And then he started.

For on the ceiling a shadow lay, huge, grotesque: the shadow of a mighty crown! A sudden memory a.s.sailed him.

He looked closer. The curtains were drawn into a knot and held in place by a heavy ring of gilded wood, carved into a coronet.

What was it the gipsy had said?

"There's fortune coming over-seas ... and a castle, my fine gentleman..."

Again he heard the husky voice crooning above his outstretched hand.

And he stared at the ceiling, his eyes wide.

For there it hung ... his "golden crown!"

CHAPTER XVI

When he awoke it was ten o'clock.

A shaft of sunshine from under the blind fell across his vast bed and he rubbed his eyes, sleepy, bewildered, wondering where on earth he could be? Then he remembered, felt for his watch, throwing back the heavy clothes, and caught his knees in the frail night-shirt. The batiste ripped as he slid to the floor.

The icy cold of the marble roused him, effectually banishing further sleep. He pattered across toward the light for the first glimpse of the world outside.

Here he was foiled at the start. For the deep windows were set high, the opening far above his head, dating from those warlike times when the solid walls were a shelter from missiles.

He dragged a heavy gilded chair underneath and mounting upon it, drew the faded curtains aside and peered forth eagerly.

But his room faced the court-yard. He could only see the opposite wing of the palace dark against the sky, rugged and gray, with a turreted roof, a picture of mediaeval strength.

A cloud of pigeons swirled up, flashing their myriad silver wings, as a servant pa.s.sed along the gallery, with its twisted columns of carved marble.

Beneath he caught a glimpse of the fountain and against the dazzling sapphire sky, like a lily on a slender stem, a single tower rose above the walls, in faded brick with a pointed belfry, white as snow, and an iron cross.

Dissatisfied, he returned to bed and, conscious of his appet.i.te, rang the bell by his side, his teeth chattering with the cold.

Beppo answered to the summons, his old face wreathed in smiles, voluble and bearing a tray with hot chocolate and rolls. In vain McTaggart tried to gather the gist of the old man's talk. One word stood out plain, recurrent, with a questioning, anxious note.