the writers, to the wrong persons?--ha! pestilence!" He ran, Barto
following him. They were crossed by the officer on horseback, who
challenged Luigi to give up the letter, which was very plainly being
thrust from his hand into his breast. The officer found it no difficult
matter to catch him and pluck the letter from him; he opened it, reading
it on the jog of the saddle as he cantered off. Luigi turned in a terror
of expostulation to ward Barto's wrath. Barto looked at him hard, while
he noted the matter down on the tablet of an ivory book. All he said
was, "I have that letter!" stamping the assertion with an oath. Half-an-
hour later Luigi saw Barto in the saddle, tight-legged about a rusty
beast, evidently bound for the South-eastern gate, his brows set like a
black wind. "Blessings on his going!" thought Luigi, and sang one of his
street-songs:--

"O lemons, lemons, what a taste you leave in the mouth! I desire you, I
love you, but when I suck you, I'm all caught up in a bundle and turn to
water, like a wry-faced fountain. Why not be satisfied by a sniff at the
blossoms? There's gratification. Why did you grow up from the precious
little sweet chuck that you were, Marietta? Lemons, O lemons! such a
thing as a decent appetite is not known after sucking at you."

His natural horror of a resolute man, more than fear (of which he had no
recollection in the sunny Piazza), made him shiver and gave his tongue an
acid taste at the prospect of ever meeting Barto Rizzo again. There was
the prospect also that he might never meet him again.