"A tall gentleman came here late last night, Signor Professore," said Mariuccia, as I sat down in the old green arm-chair.

"He seemed very angry about something, and said he must positively see you." The idea of Benoni flashed uneasily across my brain.
"Was he the grave signore who came a few days before I left ?" I asked.
"Heaven preserve us!" ejaculated Mariuccia.

"This one was much older, and seemed to be lame; for when he tried to shake his stick at me, he could not stand without it.

He looked like one of the old Swiss guards at Palazzo." By which she meant the Vatican, as you know.
"It must have been the count," I said, thinking aloud.
"A count! A pretty sort of count, indeed, to come waking people from their beds in the night! He had not even a high hat like the one you wear when you go to the University.

A count, indeed!" "Go and make me some good coffee, Mariuccia," I said, eying her severely to show I suspected her of having used mine; "and be careful to make it of my best Porto-Rico, if you have any left, without any chicory." "A count, indeed!" she muttered angrily as she hobbled away, not in the least heeding my last remark, which I believed to be withering.
I had not much time for reflection that morning.