"And this I do and suffer for thee, Ravenna!" said the bundle in the
same shrill tenor, making an attempt, as it spoke, to raise two
little projecting fins towards the cold, unsympathising stars.
"But have you succeeded, Signor Ercole?" asked the other again,
anxiously.
"I have succeeded in sacrificing myself for my country," replied the
shrill voice with chattering teeth; "for I know I shall never get
over it. I am frozen. It is a very painful form of martyrdom."
"But you can at least say one word, Signor Ercole? You can say yes
or no to the question, whether you have succeeded in our object?"
urged the Conte Leandro.
Signor Ercole Stadione, however, who was, as the reader is aware, no
less important a personage than the impresario of the principal
theatre of Ravenna, knew too well all the importance that belonged
to the news he had to tell to part with his secret so easily.
"Signor Conte," he quavered out, "I tell you I am frozen! A man
cannot speak on any subject in such a condition. I know nothing. My
intellectual faculties have not their ordinary lucidity. I must
endeavour to reach my home. Marta, hold the lamp here."
"And I who have waited here for your arrival ever since the venti-
quattro! Per Dio! Do you think I ain't cold too? And the Marchese is
expecting you. Of course, you will go to him at once?"
"I don't know that I shall ever recover myself sufficiently to do
so.
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