'Pshaw!' said Lake, angrily.

The Town Clerk pressed his arm with a significant side nod and a wink,
which seemed to say, 'I understand him; can't you let me manage him?'

The old man did not seem to hear what they said; but his tall figure rose
up, and he extended the fingers of his left hand close to the candle for
a few seconds, and then held them up to his eyes, gazing on his
finger-tips, with a horrified sort of scrutiny, as if he saw signs and
portents gathered there, like Thomas Aquinas' angels at the needles'
points, and then the same cadaverous grin broke out over his features.

'Mark Wylder is in an evil plight,' said he.

'Is he?' said Lake, with a sly scoff, though he seemed to me a good deal
scared. 'We hear no complaints, however, and fancy he must be tolerably
comfortable notwithstanding.'

'You know where he is,' said Uncle Lorne.

'Aye, in Italy; everyone knows that,' answered Lake.

'In Italy,' said the old man, reflectively, as if trying to gather up his
ideas, 'Italy. Oh! yes, Vallombrosa--aye, Italy, I know it well.'

'So do we, Sir; thank you for the information,' said Lake, who
nevertheless appeared strangely uneasy.

'He has had a great tour to make. It is nearly accomplished now; when it