Del Ferice said never a word, but began to undress himself in the dark.

It was a gloomy and lowering night, the roads were muddy, and from time to time a few drops of cold rain fell silently, portending a coming storm.

In a few moments the transformation was complete, and Del Ferice stood by his servant's side in the shabby brown cowl and rope-girdle of a Capuchin monk.
"Now comes the hard part," said Temistocle, producing a razor and a pair of scissors from the bottom of the bag.

Del Ferice had too often contemplated the possibility of flight to have omitted so important a detail.
"You cannot see--you will cut my throat," he murmured plaintively.
But the fellow was equal to the emergency.

Retiring deeper into the recess of the arch, he lit a cigar, and holding it between his teeth, puffed violently at it, producing a feeble light by which he could just see his master's face.