“That’s all nonsense,” I said. “You aren’t in a state to take the road again; and anyhow I’m not going to commit you to the risk. Here you stop, you know, till it’s safe for you to move on.”
He came to me at once, and, lifting my hand and kissing it again—but this time with a formal gravity—stood away, and looked at me with glistening eyes.
“There was wonse a good man, signore,” he said, “who find a fellow lying senseless by ze way; and he pour in wine and oil to his wounds; and he ask nozzing—nozzing what the fellow be, or how he deserve what he get, so he may just take the chance to help him. But I say I will not com’ to you, signore, so noble and clementeenious, on the lie which is not to spik. I say you shall know zis fellow, where he leave and what he deserve, lest your goodness presently shall curse the folly of itself. I am from prison—since twent-y year, signore, I have live in prison, and zis is the first long travel I take from it when you save me.”
He stopped, and bowing his head and clasping his hands, stood meekly to receive my denunciation. And I do not deny that I was startled—dumfoundered even for a moment. But the candour and honesty of the confession overcame me.
“That’s all one,” I said. “There are many men we have to accept and hobnob with who have a better title than you, I daresay, to the law’s attentions. Well, you are a ticket-of-leave man, I suppose?”
He shook his head.
“No. I serve my term.”
I regarded him curiously. Circumstance was bringing me acquainted which some queer house mates.
“A long one,” I said. “You must have deserved well of the law. Do you mind telling me your name?”
“Ah! my name, signore,” he said. “Yes—Smit, that it is—yes, Smit is my name.”