of the Sicilies, to Hernan Mendez, the Spanish
brigand," cried a third; "and here are letters
to all the worst conspirators and most pig-headed
codini in Naples, enough to hang the messenger
ten times over. See, comrades, to the Englishman!"

I had scanty time given me to protest my
innocence. Collared, hustled, my hands pinioned
behind my back, I was paraded off to jail
between two soldiers with drawn bayonets,
regarded by my fellow-travellers as little better
than a demon, and hooted by a large ragged
population that seemed to start from porch and
stone stair, from hovel and cavernous house,
throughout the ruinous old town. I scarcely
had leisure for reflection, before I found myself
thrust into a bare and damp room, which
contained but a truckle-bed and a broken stool, but
which yet was reckoned the state chamber of
the prison of Fondi.

What I underwent in that wretched place of
confinement, during several of the longest and
most miserable days that I ever spent, I scarcely
like to think of. I was not wilfully ill treated.
The jailer and his subordinates were rough, but
not cruel. It was the hard fare, the extreme
discomfort, the blank monotony of my captivity
that I felt so bitterly. The prison had been
designed, in the Bourbon times, for the reception
of mountain robbers, but what might have been
endurable to them, the grim bare room, the bed
of coarse sacking, covered by a flea-infested rug,
the polenta and rancid bacon, tried my spirit
sorely. The people persisted in regarding me as
a great criminal. A judge came to visit me, and
a greffier with him, and I was interrogated,
cross-examined, worried to my wits' end. In
vain I protested my good will to Italy, and my
utter ignorance that the staff contained papers
dangerous to the State. The judge only shrugged
his shoulders. And all this time the days were
dropping one by one into eternity, and the time of
the packet's sailing drew near. The eighteenth
of September would come, and St. Winnipeg's
school would assemble, masters and boys, but
the third classical master—where was he? In
an Italian prison, unwashed, hungry, despairing,
and the governors would no doubt proceed to a
new election. Emma!

"Mr. West, you are free!" said a tall young
Englishman, coming suddenly into the room
where I lay, sullen and desponding, on the
wretched bed. "Unscrupulous as he is, your
precious college friend, what's his name, Crooke,
never intended that your captivity, if the papers
of which you were the unwitting bearer should
fall into wrong hands, should be a very long one.
He wrote to my uncle the consul, and we have
iost no time in settling matters with the authorities
at Naples. I have come over here
on purpose to effect your release, and if you
can start at once, I should be happy to have
your company back to Naples. Here, Giacomo,
Beppo, whatever you call yourself, unlock those
irons, can't you? English wrists get chafed
by such bracelets."

The jailor, as obsequious and apologetic now
as rough and suspicious formerly, removed my
chains, and before I well knew where I was, I
was whirling away from Fondi, by the side of
my kindly young countryman, who seemed to
consider the whole matter a capital joke, pushed,
perhaps, a little too far.

"Hard on you, I must say," remarked he,
"but the Italians could only judge by appearances.
They are not to blame, you know; but,
excuse me, Mr. West, how could you let yourself
be hoodwinked as you were? It was known
papers of a treasonable nature were on their way;
but bah! I dare say you are sick of the subject."

With all our speed, and my deliverer was
very good natured in hurrying on when once I
had told my reason for haste, I did but reach
the Chiaia at Naples, and jump into a boat, as
torrents of black smoke gushed from the
Volcano's chimney. The boatman pulled and
shouted, and just as the huge paddles began to
revolve, we were alongside, and I was hauled
up the side-ladder.

"Just saved the boat, sir. Cast off there,
Johnny, and, now, go on ahead!" shouted the
captain. And off we went.

But when the dreaded eighteenth came round,
the third classical master of St. Winnipeg's,
very lean and sunburnt, was at his desk in the
ancient hall, and Dr. Swisherton nodded to him
with civil approval. The third classical master
is at home there now; his name is the Rev.
William West; his Italian misadventures seem
like a dream in the distance; and Emma is his
wife. He has never heard anything more of his
former chum at Magdalen College, Mr. Titus
Crooke.

Now ready, and to be had at all the Libraries,
HARD CASH
In 3 vols, 31s. 6.
London: SAMPSON LOW, SON, and Co.

Volume XI. will begin on the 19th of February, 1864, with a New Serial Story, entitled
QUITE ALONE,
BY GEORGE AUGUST SALA.