century, indeed, the story has been current here, of an old priest foosooth, who is said to walk about the castle, and even to read prayers in the chapel, and so forth. This fable, since I have been proprietor here, has been kept pretty well in the back ground; but, as I now perceive, it is impracticable to get the better of it altogether.’
“At this moment a new visitor was announced—the Italian Duke de Marino. ‘The Duke de Marino?’ repeated the Count in a tone of perplexity, and declared that he could not recollect ever to have heard such a name before. ‘I have been a good deal acquainted with that family,’ said I, ‘and a short time ago was present at the betrothing of the younger duke in Venice.’ The entrance of our visitor, which now followed, would have, therefore, been very agreeable to me, had I not perceived that our mutual recognition was, on his part, attended with great embarrassment and agitation. ‘Well,’ said he, recovering his composure after the first salutation, ‘now that I find you, my Lord Marquis, I need not be surprised at what occurred to me a little while ago. I supposed that my name was perfectly unknown in this country, and yet when I drew near the
