pon traitors! I am here to remind you of your
unchanging oaths, and to claim your fulfillment of them, even as
Francesco Dellia pleaded, and not in vain, before the council at Rome
thirty years ago. We are a society of peace, save alone where traitors
are concerned. I point out to you a traitor, and I cry--punishment!"

The Professor knitted his brows, and his hopes suddenly fell. They all
exchanged glances.

"Old buffer's dotty," whispered the Jew to his neighbor, tapping his
head significantly.

The musical gentleman nodded.

"Let's hear what it's all about, anyhow," muttered the ice-cream vendor,
tapping the table.

There was silence at once. They all turned toward the Count, and waited.

He had not been disappointed in their silence. It seemed to him like the
prudent reserve of true conspirators. They wished to hear his case, and,
as yet, he had only reached the preamble. Good! they should hear it.

"You all know that I was arrested and thrown into prison because I broke
what they choose to call my parole--because, after the sentence of
banishment had been passed upon me, I returned to my native country, and
took part once more in the counsels of our Order. But you have yet to
learn this, comrades; you have yet to learn that I was betrayed, foully,
wilfully--betrayed into the clutches of the Italian police. Before my
very eyes papers of our society incriminating me were placed in the hand
of our enemy, Signor Villesco, by one who had sworn our oaths in the
first degree and worn our flower. At your hands I call for vengeance
upon my betrayers--vengeance upon Adrienne di Cartuccio, calling herself
Lady St. Maurice, vengeance upon her husband, her family, and all
belonging to her. It is the first decree of our Order, which all of you
have sworn to, and I stand within my rights. Answer, comrades of the
Order of the White Hyacinth! For your sake I have languished
five-and-twenty years in a Roman prison. With you it rests to sweeten my
death. By your oaths, I charge you, give me vengeance!"

His eyes were flashing, and his features, for the first time, were
convulsed with anxiety. What meant this unsympathetic silence, this lack
of enthusiasm? He looked from one to another of their stolid, puzzled
faces. Where were the outstretched hands, the deep solemn oaths, the cry
for lots to be drawn, which he had confidently expected? Their silence
was driving him mad. Suddenly the ice-cream vendor spoke.

"What is it you