ring,"—said the friar, in a faint voice, "is not your name Tito Melema?"
"Yes," said Tito, also speaking faintly, doubly jarred by the cold touch and the mystery. He was not apprehensive or timid through his imagination, but through his sensations and perceptions he could easily be made to shrink and turn pale like a maiden.
"Then I shall fulfil my commission."
The friar put his hand under his scapulary, and drawing out a small linen bag which hung round his neck, took from it a bit of parchment, doubled and stuck firmly together with some black adhesive substance, and placed it in Tito's hand. On the outside was written in Italian, in a small but distinct character—
"Tito Melema, aged twenty-three, with a dark, beautiful face, long dark curls, the brightest smile, and a large onyx ring on his right forefinger."
Tito did not look at the friar, but tremblingly broke open the bit of parchment. Inside, the words were—
"I am sold for a slave: I think they are going to take me to Antioch. The gems alone will serve to ransom me."
Tito looked round at the friar, but could only ask a question with his eyes.
"I had it at Corinth," the friar said, speaking with difficulty, like one whose small strength had been
