intermixture of the two that produces the illuminating blaze of
the infernal regions.

Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of his spirit by a
rapid walk through the streets of Padua or beyond its gates: his
footsteps kept time with the throbbings of his brain, so that the
walk was apt to accelerate itself to a race. One day he found
himself arrested; his arm was seized by a portly personage, who
had turned back on recognizing the young man and expended much
breath in overtaking him.

"Signor Giovanni! Stay, my young friend!" cried he. "Have you
forgotten me? That might well be the case if I were as much
altered as yourself."

It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided ever since their first
meeting, from a doubt that the professor's sagacity would look
too deeply into his secrets. Endeavoring to recover himself, he
stared forth wildly from his inner world into the outer one and
spoke like a man in a dream.

"Yes; I am Giovanni Guasconti. You are Professor Pietro Baglioni.
Now let me pass!"

"Not yet, not yet, Signor Giovanni Guasconti," said the
professor, smiling, but at the same time scrutinizing the youth
with an earnest glance. "What! did I grow up side by side with
your father? and shall his son pass me like a stranger in these
old streets of Padua? Stand still, Signor Giovanni; for we must
have a word or two before we part."