Signors of the Night. Pemberton Max

nobility.

      "Ay, to you, who are about to become a fugitive from the justice of Venice. Midnight shall see you hunted in the hills, my lord; no house shall dare to shelter you; no hand shall give you bread. When you return to the city you would have betrayed, the very children shall mock you for a beggar."

      Foscari answered with an oath, and drew back. The third of the men, a youth who wore a suit of white velvet, and whose vest was ablaze with gold and jewels, now advanced jestingly.

      "And for me, most excellent friar?"

      "For you, Gian Mocenigo, a pardon in the name of that Prince of Venice whose house you have dishonoured."

      Again they replied to him with angry gibes.

      "A proof—a proof—we will put you to the proof, friar here and now, or, by God, a prophet shall pay with his life."

      He saw that they were driven to the last point. While the woman stood as a figure of stone at the table, the three advanced towards him and drove him back before their threatening swords. The new silence was the silence of his death anticipated. He thought that his last word was spoken in vain. Ten o'clock would never strike, he said. Yet even as hope seemed to fail him, and he told himself that the end had come, the bells of the city began to strike the hour, and the glorious music of their echoes floated over the sleeping waters.

      "A proof, you ask me for a proof, signori," he exclaimed triumphantly. "Surely, the proof lies in yonder room, where all the world may see it."

      He pointed to a door opening in the wall of mirrors, and giving access to a smaller chamber. Curiosity drove the men thither. They threw open the door; they entered the room; they reeled back drunk with their own terror.

      "The body of Andrea, Lord of Pisa, lay upon the marble pavement."

      For the body of Andrea, lord of Pisa, lay, still warm, upon the marble pavement of the chamber, and the dagger with which he had been stabbed was yet in his heart.

      "A proof—have I not given you a proof?" the priest cried again, while the woman's terrible cry rang through the house, and the three stood close together, as men upon whom a judgment has fallen.

      "Man or devil—who are you?" they asked in hushed whispers.

      He answered them by letting his monk's robe slip from his shoulders. As the robe fell, they beheld a figure clad in crimson velvet, and corselet of burnished gold; the figure of a man whose superb limbs had been the envy of the swordsmen of Italy; whose face, lighted now with a sense of power and of victory, was a face for which women had given their lives.

      "It is the Prince of Iseo," they cried, and, saying it, fled from the house of doom.

      At that hour, those whose gondolas were passing the Palazzo Pisani observed a strange spectacle. A priest stood upon the balcony of the house holding a silver lamp in his hand; and as he waited, a boat emerged from the shadows about the church of San Luca, and came swiftly towards him.

      "The Signori of the Night," the loiterers exclaimed in hushed whispers, and went on their way quickly.

      *****

      Very early next morning, a rumour of strange events, which had happened in Venice during the hours of darkness, drew a great throng of the people to the square before the ducal palace.

      "Have you not heard it," man cried to man; "the Palazzo Pisani lacks a mistress to-day? The police make their toilet in the boudoir of my lady. And they say that the lord of Pisa is dead."

      "Worse than that, my friends," a gondolier protested, "Andrea Foscari crossed to Maestre last night, and the dogs are even now on his heels."

      "Your news grows stale," croaked a hag who was passing; "go to the Piazzetta and you shall see the head of one who prayed before the altar ten minutes ago."

      They trooped off eager for the spectacle. When they reached the Piazzetta, the hag was justified. The head of a man lay bleeding upon the marble slab between the columns. It was the head of the Marquis of Cittadella.

      In the palace of the police, meanwhile, Pietro Falier, the Captain, was busy with his complaints.

      "The lord of Pisa is dead," he said, "the woman has gone to the Convent of Murano; there is a head between the columns; Andrea Foscari will die of hunger in the hills—yet Gian Mocenigo goes free. Who is this friar that he shall have the gift of life or death in Venice?"

      His subordinate answered:

      "This friar, Captain, is one whom Venice, surely, will make the greatest of her nobles to-day."