him　up。
  〃Ezza！〃　cried　the　poet；　rising　and　shaking　hands　in　a　pleasant　astonishment。　　〃Well；　I've　seen　you　in　many　costumes　in　the　green　room；　but　I　never　expected　to　see　you　dressed　up　as　an　Englishman。〃
  〃This；〃　answered　Ezza　gravely；　〃is　not　the　costume　of　an　Englishman；　but　of　the　Italian　of　the　future。〃
  〃In　that　case；〃　remarked　Muscari；　〃I　confess　I　prefer　the　Italian　of　the　past。〃
  〃That　is　your　old　mistake；　Muscari；〃　said　the　man　in　tweeds；　shaking　his　head；　〃and　the　mistake　of　Italy。　　In　the　sixteenth　century　we　Tuscans　made　the　morning：　　we　had　the　newest　steel；　the　newest　carving；　the　newest　chemistry。　　Why　should　we　not　now　have　the　newest　factories；　the　newest　motors；　the　newest　financethe　newest　clothes？〃
  〃Because　they　are　not　worth　having；〃　answered　Muscari。　　〃You　cannot　make　Italians　really　progressive；　they　are　too　intelligent。　　Men　who　see　the　short　cut　to　good　living　will　never　go　by　the　new　elaborate　roads。〃
  〃Well；　to　me　Marconi；　or　D'Annunzio；　is　the　star　of　Italy〃　said　the　other。　　〃That　is　why　I　have　become　a　Futuristand　a　courier。〃
  〃A　courier！〃　cried　Muscari；　laughing。　　〃Is　that　the　last　of　your　list　of　trades？　　And　whom　are　you　conducting？〃
  〃Oh；　a　man　of　the　name　of　Harrogate；　and　his　family；　I　believe。〃
  〃Not　the　banker　in　this　hotel？〃　inquired　the　poet；　with　some　eagerness。
  〃That's　the　man；〃　answered　the　courier。
  〃Does　it　pay　well？〃　asked　the　troubadour　innocently。
  〃It　will　pay　me；〃　said　Ezza；　with　a　very　enigmatic　smile。　　〃But　I　am　a　rather　curious　sort　of　courier。〃　　Then；　as　if　changing　the　subject；　he　said　abruptly：　　〃He　has　a　daughterand　a　son。〃
  〃The　daughter　is　divine；〃　affirmed　Muscari；　〃the　father　and　son　are；　I　suppose；　human。　　But　granted　his　harmless　qualities　doesn't　that　banker　strike　you　as　a　splendid　instance　of　my　argument？　　Harrogate　has　millions　in　his　safes；　and　I　havethe　hole　in　my　pocket。　　But　you　daren't　say　you　can't　saythat　he's　cleverer　than　I；　or　bolder　than　I；　or　even　more　energetic。　　He's　not　clever；　he's　got　eyes　like　blue　buttons；　he's　not　energetic；　he　moves　from　chair　to　chair　like　a　paralytic。　　He's　a　conscientious；　kindly　old　blockhead；　but　he's　got　money　simply　because　he　collects　money；　as　a　boy　collects　stamps。　　You're　too　strong…minded　for　business；　Ezza。　　You　won't　get　on。　　To　be　clever　enough　to　get　all　that　money；　one　must　be　stupid　enough　to　want　it。〃
  〃I'm　stupid　enough　for　that；〃　said　Ezza　gloomily。　　〃But　I　should　suggest　a　suspension　of　your　critique　of　the　banker；　for　here　he　comes。〃
  Mr　Harrogate；　the　great　financier；　did　indeed　enter　the　room；　but　nobody　looked　at　him。　　He　was　a　massive　elderly　man　with　a　boiled　blue　eye　and　faded　grey…sandy　moustaches；　but　for　his　heavy　stoop　he　might　have　been　a　colonel。　　He　carried　several　unopened　letters　in　his　hand。　　His　son　Frank　was　a　really　fine　lad；　curly…haired；　sun…burnt　and　strenuous；　but　nobody　looked　at　him　either。　　All　eyes；　as　usual；　were　riveted；　for　the　moment　at　least；　upon　Ethel　Harrogate；　whose　golden　Greek　head　and　colour　of　the　dawn　seemed　set　purposely　above　that　sapphire　sea；　like　a　goddess's。　　The　poet　Muscari　drew　a　deep　breath　as　if　he　were　drinking　something；　as　indeed　he　was。　　He　was　drinking　the　Classic；　which　his　fathers　made。　　Ezza　studied　her　with　a　gaze　equally　intense　and　far　more　baffling。
  Miss　Harrogate　was　specially　radiant　and　ready　for　conversation　on　this　occasion；　and　her　family　had　fallen　into　the　easier　Continental　habit；　allowing　the　stranger　Muscari　and　even　the　courier　Ezza　to　share　their　table　and　their　talk。　　In　Ethel　Harrogate　conventionality　crowned　itself　with　a　perfection　and　splendour　of　its　own。　　Proud　of　her　father's　prosperity；　fond　of　fashionable　pleasures；　a　fond　daughter　but　an　arrant　flirt；　she　was　all　these　things　with　a　sort　of　golden　good…nature　that　made　her　very　pride　pleasing　and　her　worldly　respectability　a　fresh　and　hearty　thing。
  They　were　in　an　eddy　of　excitement　about　some　alleged　peril　in　the　mountain　path　they　were　to　attempt　that　week。　　The　danger　was　not　from　rock　and　avalanche；　but　from　something　yet　more　romantic。　　Ethel　had　been　earnestly　assured　that　brigands；　the　true　cut…throats　of　the　modern　legend；　still　haunted　that　ridge　and　held　that　pass　of　the　Apennines。
  〃They　say；〃　she　cried；　with　the　awful　relish　of　a　schoolgirl；　〃that　all　that　country　isn't　ruled　by　the　King　of　Italy；　but　by　the　King　of　Thieves。　　Who　is　the　King　of　Thieves？〃
  〃A　great　man；〃　replied　Muscari；　〃worthy　to　rank　with　your　own　Robin　Hood；　signorina。　　Montano；　the　King　of　Thieves；　was　first　heard　of　in　the　mountains　some　ten　years　ago；　when　people　said　brigands　were　extinct。　　But　his　wild　authority　spread　with　the　swiftness　of　a　silent　revolution。　　Men　found　his　fierce　proclamations　nailed　in　every　mountain　village；　his　sentinels；　gun　in　hand；　in　every　mountain　ravine。　　Six　times　the　Italian　Government　tried　to　dislodge　him；　and　was　defeated　in　six　pitched　battles　as　if　by　Napoleon。〃
  〃Now　that　sort　of　thing；〃　observed　the　banker　weightily；　〃would　never　be　allowed　in　England；　perhaps；　after　all；　we　had　better　choose　another　route。　　But　the　courier　thought　it　perfectly　safe。〃
  〃It　is　perfectly　safe；〃　said　the　courier　contemptuously。　　〃I　have　been　over　it　twenty　times。　　There　may　have　been　some　old　jailbird　called　a　King　in　the　time　of　our　grandmothers；　but　he　belongs　to　history　if　not　to　fable。　　Brigandage　is　utterly　stamped　out。〃
  〃It　can　never　be　utterly　stamped　out；〃　Muscari　answered；　〃because　armed　revolt　is　a　recreation　natural　to　southerners。　　Our　peasants　are　like　their　mountains；　rich　in　grace　and　green　gaiety；　but　with　the　fires　beneath。　　There　is　a　point　of　human　despair　where　the　northern　poor　take　to　drinkand　our　own　poor　take　to　daggers。〃
  〃A　poet　is　privileged；〃　replied　Ezza；　with　a　sneer。　　〃If　Signor　Muscari　were　English　be　would　still　be　looking　for　highwaymen　in　Wandsworth。　　Believe　me；　there　is　no　more　danger　of　being　captured　in　Italy　than　of　being　scalped　in　Boston。〃
  〃Then　you　propose　to　attempt　it？〃　asked　Mr　Harrogate；　frowning。
  〃Oh；　it　sounds　rather　dreadful；〃　cried　the　girl；　turning　her　glorious　eyes　on　Muscari。　　〃Do　you　really　think　the　pass　is　dangerous？〃
  Muscari　threw　back　his　black　mane。　　〃I　know　it　is　dangerous：〃　he　said。　　〃I　am　crossing　it　tomorrow。〃
  The　young　Harrogate　was　left　behind　for　a　moment　emptying　a　glass　of　white　wine　and　lighting　a　cigarette；　as　the　beauty　retired　with　the　banker；　the　courier　and　the　poet；　distributing　peals　of　silvery　satire。　　At　about　the　same　instant　the　two　priests　in　the　corner　rose；　the　taller；　a　white…haired　Italian；　taking　his　leave。　　The　shorter　priest　turned　and　walked　towards　the　banker's　son；　and　the　latter　was　astonished　to　realize　that　though　a　Roman　priest　the　man　was　an　Englishman。　　He　vaguely　remembered　meeting　him　at　the　social　crushes　of　some　of　his　Catholic　friends。　　But　the　man　spoke　before　his　memories　could　collect　themselves。
  〃Mr　Frank　Harrogate；　I　think；〃　he　said。　　〃I　have　had　an　introduction；　but　I　do　not　mean　to　presume　on　it。　　The　odd　thing　I　have　to　say　will　come　far　better　from　a　stranger。　　Mr　Harrogate；　I　say　one　word　and　go：　　take　care　of　your　sister　in　her　great　sorrow。〃
  Even　for　Frank's　truly　fraternal　indifference　the　radiance　and　derision　of　his　sister　still　seemed　to　sparkle　and　ring；　he　could　hear　her　laughter　still　from　the　garden　of　the　hotel；　and　he　stared　at　his　sombre　adviser　in　puzzledom。
  〃Do　you　mean　the　brigands？〃　he　asked；　and　then；　remembering　a　vague　fear　of　his　own；　〃or　can　you　be　thinking　of　Muscari？〃
  〃One　is　never　thinking　of　the　real　sorrow；〃　said　the　strange　priest。　　〃One　can　only　be　kind　when　it　comes。〃
  And　he　passed　promptly　from　the　room；　leaving　the　other　almost　with　his　mouth　open。
  A　day　or　two　afterwards　a　coach　containing　the　company　was　really　crawling　and　staggering　up　the　spurs　of　the　menacing　mountain　range。　　Between　Ezza's　cheery　denial　of　the　danger　and　Muscari's　boisterous　defiance　of　it；　the　financial　family　were　firm　in　their　original　purpose；　and　Muscari　made　his　mountain　journey　coincide　with　theirs。　　A　more　surprising　feature　was　the　appearance　at　the　coast…town　station　of　the　little　priest　of　the　restaurant；　he　alleged　merely　that　business　led　him　also　to　cross　the　mountains　of　the　midland。　　But　young　Harrogate　could　not　but　connect　his　presence　with　the　mystical　fears　and　warnings　of　yesterday。
  The　coach　was　a　kind　of　commodious　wagonette；　invented　by　the　modernist　talent　of　the　courier；　who　dominated　the　expedition　with　his　scientific　activity　and　breezy　wit。　　The　theory　of　danger　from　thieves　was　banished　from　thought　and　speech；　though　so　far　conceded　in　formal　act　that　some　slight　protection　was　employed。　　The　courier　and　the　young　banker　carried　loaded　revolvers；　and　Muscari　（with　much　boyish　gratification）　buckled　on　a　kind　of　cutlass　under　his　black　cloak。
  He　had　planted　his　person　at　a　flying　leap　next　to　the　lovely　Englishwoman；　on　the　other　side　of　her　sat　the　priest；　whose　name　was　Brown　and　who　was　fortunately　a　silent　individual；　the　courier　and　the　father　and　son　were　on　the