"But I thought that to go to America an American passport would be
needed."

"In America," returned the consul, with proud compassion, "they don't
care a fig for passports. You go and you come, and nobody meddles. To
be sure," he faltered, "just now, on account of the secessionists, they
_do_ require you to show a passport at New York; but," he
continued more boldly, "American passports are usually for Europe; and
besides, all the American passports in the world wouldn't get
_you_ over the frontier at Peschiera. _You_ must have a passport
from the Austrian Lieutenancy of Venice,"

Don Ippolito nodded his head softly several times, and said,
"Precisely," and then added with an indescribable weariness, "Patience!
Signor Console, I ask your pardon for the trouble I have given," and he
made the consul another low bow.

Whether Mr. Ferris's curiosity was piqued, and feeling himself on the
safe side of his visitor he meant to know why he had come on such an
errand, or whether he had some kindlier motive, he could hardly have
told himself, but he said, "I'm very sorry. Perhaps there is something
else in which I could be of use to you."

"Ah, I hardly know," cried Don Ippolito. "I really had a kind of hope
in coming to your excellency."

"I am not an excellency," interrupted Mr. Ferris, conscientiously.

"Many excuses! But now it seems a mere bestiality. I was so ignorant
about the other matter that doubtless I am also quite deluded in this."