a heavy stone falling into
deep water; for he was awake, and the voice that was calling him was
certainly not that of the beautiful nun, but gruff and manly; also the
tapping was not tapping any more upon a casement, but was a vigorous
pounding against his own bolted door.

Dalrymple sat up suddenly and listened, wide awake at once. The square
of his window was faintly visible in the darkness, as though the dawn
were breaking. He called out, asking who was outside.

"Get up, Signore! Get up! You are wanted quickly!" It was Stefanone.

Dalrymple struck a light, for he had a supply of matches with him, a
convenience of modern life not at that time known in Subiaco, except as
an expensive toy, though already in use in Rome. As he was, he opened
the door. Stefanone came in, dressed in his shirt and breeches, pale
with excitement.

"You must dress yourself, Signore," he said briefly, as he glanced at
the Scotchman, and then set down the small tin and glass lantern he
carried.

"What is the matter?" inquired Dalrymple, yawning, and stretching his
great white arms over his head, till his knuckles struck the low
ceiling; for he was a tall man.

"The matter is that they have killed Sor Tommaso," answered the peasant.

Dalrymple uttered an exclamation of surprise and incredulity.

"It is as I say," continued Stefanone. "They found him lying across the
way, in the street, with knife-wounds in him, as many as you please."

"That is horrible!" exclaimed Dalrymple, turning, and calmly trimming
his lamp, which burned badly at first.

"Then dress yourself, Signore!" said Stefanone, impatiently. "You must
come!"

"Why? If he is dead, what can I do?" asked the northern man, coolly. "I
am sorry. What more can I say?"

"But he is not dead yet!" Stefanone was growing excited. "They have
taken him--"

"Oh! he is alive, is he?" interrupted the Scotchman, dashing at his
clothes, as though he were suddenly galvanized into life himself. "Then
why did you tell me they had killed him?" he asked, with a curious, dry
calmness of voice, as he instantly began to dress himself. "Get some
clean linen, Signor Stefano. Tear it up into strips as broad as your
hand, for bandages, and set the women to make a little lint of old
linen--cotton is not good. Where have they taken Sor Tommaso?"

"To his own house," answered the peasant.

"So much the better. Go and make the bandages."

Dalrymple pushed Stefanone towards the door with one hand,