and he was a good king, but, more than that, he was a good man, and made fine lobster-pots."
His wife brought from under the bed a large box packed with letters from all parts of the globe, verifying his statements, though the one from "King Louis" could not be found. The family handled the missives with great care, but they were torn and yellow from much proud caressing. It was confusing. The tomb, the letters, the sincerity of the man, stood sponsors for truth, but the scene itself, the handful of people in their poor huts, the absence of any pretence of form, were in startling contradiction to the other evidence. Plainly I had not yet found the key to the situation, and my host, with his simple faith in what he was telling, was not the one to help me.
"And now, signore? There are not so many of us now—forty, perhaps, in all. I am, of course, the head, but not with the ambition of my father. We are content to abide by the rule of the good king of the mainland. Paul I. ever bore for Italy the kindest of feelings, and recognized its rulers as great men also. No, I do not care to be a king. It is enough for me to make as fine lobster-pots as did my father."
He led me through the tiny hamlet, but there was nothing to see beyond the line of huts. Ill-kempt women were at the hand-looms, and dull-eyed children, suffering from the results of intermarriage, played listlessly about. Our royal host had taken an "off-islander" to wife, and their girls were clean and intelligent. Most of the inhabitants fled from the camera as though it were the evil eye, but the scion of Paul I. and his family, after begging for a few moments' respite, appeared, garbed for the ordeal, in as fine a collection of store clothes as ever were exhibited in Terranova.
The royal Tavolarian navy, with their lobster catch at the bottom of their clumsy hulks, put into port as we were taking leave of the Bertoleoni. All through the day we had heard the sound of guns, and at the first report the Crown-Prince lifted his hand for silence and listened eagerly, then sighed and shook his head. "Continue, signore; it is not the royal salute." There were no signs of gleaming cannon on the fishing-smacks of the Tavolarian navy, but the booming was explained as we swung out of the cove into the open. Drawn up in mighty, glistening array was the Mediterranean squadron of Britannia, with anchors dropped for the night, and the men moving easily about, resting from the day of target practice twenty miles away. Never did vessels seem more imposing or the country that they represented more powerful. I looked back. The royal family had climbed the promontory and were standing by the tomb of their father. It was pathetic, and it was perplexing.
The "following" met us at the wharf with their ranks swollen by four soldiers and a comandante, who, with serious faces, closed about me as I landed.
"Sir," said the comandante, "you are under arrest. Come with me."
An arrest in a strange country is no laughing matter; an arrest in Italy, where foreigners are allowed even unwarrantable liberties, is a very serious thing. I made no resistance, paid my boatmen, tipped and shook hands with my tearful valet de place, and stepped between the soldiers. "It may be only part of this queer play," I thought, wearily, "but if so, please the Lord, it's the last act." The inhabitants were on all sides of us, talking excitedly. I listened intently, caught the word of war-ships, Englishman, spy, and plans, and it came over my jaded senses that these idle people, lacking a house to rob, had vaguely connected me with the British fleet, and with possible designs upon Tavolara as a coaling-station. At least I could settle my identity. I stopped abruptly, the crowd closed in, the comandante looked inquiringly, and with a flourish I drew forth my passport and bowed low.
He understood no English, this officer, and he read it aloud with the accent of the Italian, the rest of Terranova joining in like a Greek chorus.
"Hair—blacka," quoth he, looking at my nose.
"Blacka," assented the crowd.
"Eyes—br-r-r-own," gazing doubtfully at my mouth.
"Br-r-r-own," murmured the chorus.
"Fa-che—oval." There was a dreadful pause.
