'THAT!' cried the German. 'Well, I think I know a name for that.'

'Miracle?' said the Neapolitan, with the same sly face.

The German merely smoked and laughed; and they all smoked and
laughed.

'Bah!' said the German, presently. 'I speak of things that really
do happen. When I want to see the conjurer, I pay to see a
professed one, and have my money's worth. Very strange things do
happen without ghosts. Ghosts! Giovanni Baptista, tell your story
of the English bride. There's no ghost in that, but something full
as strange. Will any man tell me what?'

As there was a silence among them, I glanced around. He whom I
took to be Baptista was lighting a fresh cigar. He presently went
on to speak. He was a Genoese, as I judged.

'The story of the English bride?' said he. 'Basta! one ought not
to call so slight a thing a story. Well, it's all one. But it's
true. Observe me well, gentlemen, it's true. That which glitters
is not always gold; but what I am going to tell, is true.'

He repeated this more than once.


Ten years ago, I took my credentials to an English gentleman at
Long's Hotel, in Bond Street, London, who was about to travel - it
might be for one year, it might be for two. He approved of them;
likewise of me. He was pleased to make inquiry. The testimony