PART EIGHT—THE KING
I
Early on the morning of Holy Saturday a little crowd of Italians stood on the open space in front of the platform at the Bahnhof of Zürich. Most of them wore the blue smocks and peaked caps of porters and street-sweepers, but in the centre of the group was a tall man in a frockcoat and a soft felt hat.
It was Rossi. He was noticeably changed since his flight from Rome. His bronzed face was paler, his cheeks thinner, his dark eyes looked larger, his figure stooped perceptibly, and he had the air of a man who was struggling to conceal a consuming nervousness.
The bell rang for the starting of a train and Rossi shook hands with everybody.
"Going straight through, Honourable?"
"No, I shall sleep at Milan to-night and go on to Rome in the morning."
"Addio, Onorevole!"
"Addio!"