"Antonio Balbini was strangled this morning, and nailed to the wall of the prison," said a deep voice, suddenly.
Every one turned toward the speaker, who continued in a calm voice:
"As I tell you, Count Hermann—nailed to the wall. Ah, we have splendid methods here to humiliate the mob. About eight days ago two traitors were fried in hot oil, and if they are to be buried alive a la proviguere—"
"What is that?" asked a captain, sipping sorbet.
"What? You don't know what that is?" said the first speaker, in hard metallic tones. "One would think you had just come from another world."
The speaker was an Italian, about thirty years of age, of extraordinary beauty. Deep black, sparkling eyes lighted up the finely-chiselled features, and perfect white teeth looked from under the fresh rosy lips and raven black mustache.
The Marquis Aslitta was since two months in Milan, and, as was said, had formerly lived at Naples. He carefully refrained from meeting his countrymen, and appeared to be a faithful servant of foreign tyrants.
While he spoke the officers appeared to feel uncomfortable, and if they laughed, it sounded forced and unnatural.
"To come back to the proviguere," said Aslitta, laughing loudly. "The prisoners are chained, their legs are broken, and they are hurled head foremost into a pit about four feet deep. Then the pit is filled with dirt, leaving the legs exposed up to the knees. It recalls little trees and looks comical."