"Rocca Zicani, the Prince is waiting for you."
The assassin staggered against the door of a house, and stood there as one paralysed. He had heard those words once before in the dungeons of Naples. They had been spoken by the Inquisitors who came to Italy with one of the Spanish princes. Instantly he recalled the scene where first he had listened to them—the dungeon draped in black; the white hot irons which had seared his flesh; the rack which had maimed his limbs, the masked men who had tortured him.
"Great God," he moaned, "not that—not that——"
The priest stepped from the shadows and stood in a place where the feeble light of an oil lamp could fall upon his face. The laugh hovered still about his lips. He regarded the trembling man with a contempt he would not conceal.
"Upon my word, Signor Rocca," he exclaimed, "this is a poor welcome to an old friend."
The bravo, who had fallen on his knees, for he believed that a trick had again delivered him into the hands of his enemies, looked up at the words, and stared at the monk as at an apparition.
"Holy Virgin!" he cried, "it is the Prince of Iseo."
The priest continued in the jester's tone:
"As you say, old comrade, the Prince of Iseo. Glory to God for the good fortune which puts you in my path to-night. Oh, you are very glad to see me, Signor Rocca, I'll swear to that. What, the fellow whom my hands snatched from the rack in the house of the Duke of Naples—has he no word for me? And he carries his naked sword in his hand; he has the face of a woman and his knees tremble. What means this?"
He had seemed to speak in jest, but while the cowed man was still kneeling before him, he, of a sudden, struck the sword aside, and, stooping, he gripped the bravo by the throat and dragged him from the shelter of the porch to the water's edge. As iron were the relentless hands; the man's eyes started from his head, the very breath seemed to be crushed out of him in the grip of the terrible priest.
"Signor Rocca, what means this?" the friar repeated. "A naked sword in your hand and sweat upon your brow. Oh! oh! a tale, indeed! Shall I read it to you, or shall I raise my voice and fetch those who will read it for me—those who have the irons heated, and the boot so made for your leg that no last in Italy shall better it. Speak, rascal, shall I read you the tale?"
"Mercy, Prince, for the love of God."
The priest released the pressure of his hands and let the other sink at his feet.
"Who sent you, rogue?" he asked. "Who pays your wage?"
"I dare not tell you, excellency."
"Dare not! you dare not—you, whom a word will put to torture greater than any you have dreamed of in your worst agonies; you dare not."
"Excellency, the Countess of Treviso—I am her servant."
"And the man who sent her to the work—his name?"
"Andrea, Count of Pisa, excellency."
The priest stepped back as one whose curiosity was entirely satisfied.
"Ah! I thought so. And the price they paid you, knave?"
"Forty silver ducats, excellency."
"Ho, ho!—so that is the price of a friar in Venice."
The bravo sought to join in the jest.
"Had they known it was the Prince of Iseo, it had been a hundred thousand, excellency."
Frà Giovanni did not listen to him. His quick brain was solving a strange problem—the problem of the price that these people, in their turn, should pay to Venice. When he had solved it, he turned to the cringing figure at his feet.
"Signor Rocca," he said, "do you know of what I am thinking?"
"Of mercy, excellency; of mercy for one who has not deserved it."
"But who can deserve it?"
"Excellency, hearken to me. I swear by all the saints——"
"In whose name you blaspheme, rascal. Have I not heard your oath in Naples when the irons seared your flesh? Shall I listen again when the fire is being made ready, and there is burning coal beneath the bed you will lie upon to-night, Signor Rocca?"
"Oh! for God's sake, excellency!"
"Not so; for the sake of Venice, rather."
"I will be your slave—I swear it on the cross I will give my life——"
"Your precious life, Signor Rocca!—nay, what a profligate you are!"
Frà Giovanni's tone, perhaps, betrayed him. The trembling man began to take heart a little.
"Prove me, excellency," he whined; "prove me here and now."
The friar made a pretence of debating it. After a little spell of silence he bade the other rise.
"Come," he said, "your legs catch cold, my friend, and will burn slowly. Stretch them here upon the Campo while I ask you some questions. And remember, for every lie you tell me there shall be another wedge in the boot you are about to wear. You understand that, signore?"
"Excellency, the man that could lie to the Prince of Iseo has yet to be born."
It was a compliment spoken from the very heart; but the priest ignored it.
"Let us not speak of others, but of you and your friends. And, firstly, of the woman who sent you. She is now——"
"In the Palazzo Pisani waiting news of you."
"You were to carry that news to her?"
"And to receive my wage, excellency. But I did not know what work it was—holy God, I would not have come for——"
Frà Giovanni cut him short with a gesture of impatience.
"Tell me," he exclaimed, "the Count of Pisa, is he not the woman's lover?"
"They say so, signore."
"And he is at her house to-night?"
The man shook his head.
"Before Heaven, I do not know, excellency. An hour ago, he sat at a café in the great square."
"And the woman—was she alone when you left her?"
"There were three with her to sup."
The priest nodded his head.
"It is good!" he said; "we shall even presume to sup with her."
"To sup with her—but they will kill you, excellency!"
"Ho, ho—see how this assassin is concerned for my life."
"Certainly I am. Have you not given me mine twice? I implore you not to go to the house——"
"A gondola was approaching them."
He would have said more, but the splash of an oar in the narrow canal by which they walked cut short his entreaties. A gondola was approaching them; the cry of the gondolier, awakening echoes beneath the eaves of the old houses, gave to Frà Giovanni that inspiration he had been seeking now for some minutes.
"Rocca Zicani," he exclaimed, standing suddenly as the warning cry, "Stalè" became more distinct, "I am going to put your professions to the proof."
"Excellency, I will do anything——"
"Then, if you would wake to-morrow with a head upon your shoulders, enter that gondola, and go back to those who sent you. Demand your wage of them——"
"But,