"Addio!"
And without further words he hurried off, and tossing a twenty-franc
piece to the sleepy hotel porter who was holding Ruspardi's horse
outside, he flung himself into the saddle and galloped away.
Ruspardi, young and hotblooded, was of too mercurial a disposition
to anticipate any really serious results of the night's adventure;--
his contempt for a coward was far greater than his fear of death,
and he was delighted to think that in all probability the Marquis
would use his riding-whip on Miraudin's back rather than honour him
by a pistol shot. And so dismissing all fears from his mind he took
Fontenelle's letters in his charge, and went straight out of the
hotel singing gaily, charmed with the exciting thought of the
midnight chase which was going on, and the possible drubbing and
discomfiture of the "celebrated" Miraudin.
Meanwhile, under the flashing stars, and through the sleeping
streets of Rome, the Marquis galloped with almost breakneck haste.
He was a daring rider, and the spirited animal he bestrode soon
discovered the force of his governing touch,--the resolve of his
urging speed. He went by the Porta Pia, remembering Ruspardi's
hurried description of the route taken by the runaway actor, and
felt, rather than saw the outline of the Villa Torlonia, as he
rushed past, and the Basilica of St.
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