“It is my workshop,” said the boy, proudly, and produced the key to open the door.
Scarcely had he crossed the threshold, however, than his foot struck a roll of papers, and, stooping down, he caught up a large placard, headed, “Morte al Tiranno,” in large capitals. Holding the sheet up to the moonlight, he saw that it contained a violent and sanguinary appeal to the wildest passions of the Carbonari,—one of those savage exhortations to bloodshedding which were taken from the terrible annals of the French Revolution. Some of these bore the picture of the guillotine at top, others were headed with cross poniards.
“What are all these about?” asked Baynton, as he took up three or four of them in his hand; but the youth, overcome with terror, could make no answer.
“These are all sans-culotte literature, I take it,” said his Lordship; but the youth was stupefied and silent.
“Has there been any treachery at work here?” asked Baynton. “Is there a scheme to entrap you?”
The youth nodded a melancholy and slow assent.
“But why should you be obnoxious to these people? Have you any enemies amongst them?”
“I cannot tell,” gloomily muttered the youth.
“And this is your statue?” said Baynton, as, opening a large shutter, he suffered a flood of moonlight to fall on the figure.