A small square pane of glass admitted light enough to see all that there was to be seen, and close to this extemporized window hung the mirror alluded to, a beautiful thing set in silver of antique workmanship, the costliness of which I at once recognized, though into the glass itself I dared not for the moment look.

The old man showed me with some pride that the door to this narrow den of his locked from within.
"I made the lock and key, and fitted it all myself," he said.

"Look how neat and strong! Yes; I was clever once at all that work--it was my trade--till that morning when I found her with the singer from Venice; then I forgot all I used to know--it went away somehow, I could never understand why.

Here is the fisherman's suit; you can take your time to put it on; fasten the door; the room is at your service." And he nodded several times in a manner that was meant to be friendly, and left me.

I followed his advice at once and locked myself in.