On the 11th of January, 1822, about nine in the morning, Tremerello came into my room in no little agitation, and said,
“Do you know, Sir, that in the island of San Michele, a little way from Venice, there is a prison containing more than a hundred Carbonari.”
“You have told me so a hundred times. Well! what would you have me hear, speak out; are some of them condemned?”
“Exactly.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is my poor friend Maroncelli among them?”
“Ah, Sir, too many . . . I know not who.” And he went away in great emotion, casting on me a look of compassion.
Shortly after came the jailer, attended by the assistants, and by a man whom I had never before seen. The latter opened his subject as follows: “The commission, Sir, has given orders that you come with me!”
“Let us go, then,” I replied; “may I ask who you are?”