opposite side of the street.

Gouache lay on his back, his head tied up in a bandage and
supported by a white pillow, which somehow conveyed the impression
of one of those marble cushions upon which in old-fashioned
monuments the effigies of the dead are made to lean in eternal
prayer, if not in eternal ease. He moved impatiently as the door
opened, and then recognising Giovanni, he hailed him in a voice
much more lively and sonorous than might have been expected.

"You, prince!" he cried, in evident delight. "What saint has
brought you?"

"I heard of your accident, and so I came to see if I could do
anything for you. How are you?"

"As you see," replied Gouache. "In a hospitable tomb, with my head
tied up like an imperfectly-resurrected Lazarus. For the rest
there is nothing the matter with me, except that they have taken
away my clothes, which is something of an obstacle to my leaving
the house at once. I feel as if I had been in a revolution and had
found myself on the wrong side of the barricade--nothing worse
than that."

"You are in good spirits, at all events. But are you not seriously
hurt?"

"Oh, nothing--a broken collar-bone somewhere, I believe, and some
part of my head gone--I am not quite sure which, and a bad
headache, and nothing to eat, and a general sensation as though