“Thou didst so: and was there anything remarkable in the dress of the Signora di Gabrini?”
“Yes, I have told thee: a blue mantle, such as I have rarely seen, wrought with silver.”
“Was the broidery that of stars, silver stars,” exclaimed Adrian, “with a sun in the centre?”
“It was.”
“Alas! alas! the arms of the Tribune’s family! I remember how I praised the mantle the first day she wore it—the day on which we were betrothed!” And the lover at once conjectured the secret sentiment which had induced Irene to retain thus carefully a robe so endeared by association.
“You know no more of your lodgers?”
“Nothing.”
“And is this all you have learned, knave?” cried Adrian.
“Patience. I must bring you from proof to proof, and link to link, in order to win my reward. Follow, Signor.”
The Becchino then passing through the several lanes and streets, arrived at another house of less magnificent size and architecture. Again he tapped thrice at the parlour door, and this time came forth a man withered, old, and palsied, whom death seemed to disdain to strike.