ing, friendly way, trying to spy out her secret, and exposing his
own by his interrupted phrases and mysterious reserves. When he
fancied that every cloud of former resentment, even the lightest, had
disappeared from Joan's brow, he begged her to go with her suite on a
magnificent hunting expedition that he was organising for the 20th of
August, adding that such a kindness on her part would be for him a sure
pledge of their reconciliation and complete forgetfulness of the past.
Joan promised with a charming grace, and the prince retired fully
satisfied with the interview, carrying with him the conviction that he
had only to threaten to strike a blow at the queen's favourite to ensure
her obedience, perhaps even her love.

But on the eve of the 20th of August a strange and terrible scene was
being enacted in the basement storey of one of the lateral towers of
Castel Nuovo. Charles of Durazzo, who had never ceased to brood secretly
over his infernal plans, had been informed by the notary whom he had
charged to spy upon the conspirators, that on that particular evening
they were about to hold a decisive meeting, and therefore, wrapped in
a black cloak, he glided into the underground corridor and hid himself
behind a pillar, there to await the issue of the conference. After two
dreadful hours of suspense, every second marked out by the beating of
his heart, Charles fancied he heard the sound of a door very carefully
opened; the feeble ray of a lantern in the vault scarcely served to
dispel the darkness, but a man coming away from the wall approached
him walking like a living statue. Charles gave a slight cough, the sign
agreed upon. The man put out his light and hid away the dagger he had
drawn in case of a surprise.

"Is it you, Master Nicholas?" asked the duke in a low voice.

"It is I, my lord."

"What is it?"

"They have just fixed the prince's death for tomorrow, on his way to the
hunt."

"Did you recognise every conspirator?"

"Every one, though their faces were masked; when they gave their vote
for death, I knew them by their voices."

"Could you point out to me who they are?"

"Yes, this very minute; they are going to pass along at the end of this
corridor. And see, here is Tommaso Pace walking in front of them to
light their way."

Indeed, a tall spectral figure, black from head to foot, his face
carefully hidden under a velvet mask, walked at the end of the corridor,
lamp in hand, and stopped at the f