er would be traced to me.

I opened my shop at the usual time. My neighbor, who was a talkative
man, came in to see me as usual in the morning.

"What do you say to the horrible tragedy that happened last night?" was
his greeting. I acted as if I knew nothing about it. "What, is it
possible that you don't know what the whole city is talking about? Not
know that the most beautiful flower of Florence, Bianca, the Governor's
daughter, was murdered during the night? I saw her yesterday, looking
so happy as she rode through the streets with her lover; and to-day was
to have been her wedding day."

Every word was a stab in my heart. And how often did I suffer these
pangs, as one by one my customers repeated the story, each making it
more horrible than the other! And yet none of them could make it as
terrible as it had been when presented to my own eyes.

About noon an officer from the court stepped into my shop, and
requested me to send the people away.

"Signor Zaleukos," said he, producing the articles I had missed, "are
these things yours?"

I hesitated for a moment whether I should deny all knowledge of them;
but as I saw through the half open door my landlord and several
acquaintances who could have borne witness against me, I determined not
to make the matter worse by a lie, and acknowledged the ownership of
the articles. The officer bade me follow him, and led me to a large
building, which I soon recognized as the prison. There he showed me to
a room, telling me that I should occupy it for the present.

My situation seemed desperate when I came to think it over in the
solitude of the prison. The thought that I had committed murder, even
though it was done accidentally, kept returning to my mind. Neither
could I hide from myself the fact that the glitter of the gold had
captivated my senses, or I should never have rushed so blindly into
this affair.

Two hours after my arrest I was led out of my chamber. Passing down
several steps, we entered a large hall. Twelve men, most of them of
advanced age, sat at a long table, covered with a black cloth. On the
side of the hall were ranged rows of benches, filled with the
aristocracy of Florence. High up, in the galleries the spectators were
crowded close together. When I was brought before the black-covered
table, a man of dark and sad aspect arose. It was the Governor. He told
those assembled that he, being the father of the murdered girl, could
not preside over this