dily. Mystified beyond measure, he let his cloak
fall back again, and began to peer into the shadows as though some
miracle had been wrought and the priest carried suddenly from earth to
that heaven whither he had meant to send him so unceremoniously.

"Blood of Paul!" he exclaimed angrily, turning about and about again,
"am I losing my eyes? A plague upon the place and the shadows."

He stamped his foot impotently, and was about to run back by the way
he had come when a voice spoke in the shadows; and at the sound of the
voice, the sword fell from the man's hand and he reeled back as from a
blow.

"Rocca Zicani, the Prince is waiting for you."

The assassin staggered against the door of a house, and stood there as
one paralyzed. He had heard those words once before in the dungeons of
Naples. They had been spoken by the Inquisitors who came to Italy with
one of the Spanish princes. Instantly he recalled the scene where
first he had listened to them--the dungeon draped in black--the
white-hot irons which had seared his flesh; the rack which had maimed
his limbs, the masked men who had tortured him.

"Great God!" he moaned, "not that--not that--"

The priest stepped from the shadows and stood in a place where the
feeble light of an oil lamp could fall upon his face. The laugh
hovered still about his lips. He regarded the trembling man with a
contempt he would not conceal.

"Upon my word, Signer Rocca," he exclaimed, "this is a poor welcome to
an old friend."

The _bravo_, who had fallen on his knees, for he believed that a trick
had again delivered him into the hands of his enemies, looked up at
the words, and stared at the monk as at an apparition.

"Holy Virgin!" he cried, "it is the Prince of Iseo."

The priest continued in the jester's tone:

"As you say, old comrade, the Prince of Iseo. Glory to God for the
good fortune which puts you in my path to-night! Oh, you are very glad
to see me, Signor Rocca, I'll swear to that. What, the fellow whom my
hands snatched from the rack in the house of the Duke of Naples--has
he no word for me? And he carries his naked sword in his hand; he has
the face of a woman and his knees tremble. What means this?"

He had seemed to speak in jest, but while the cowed man was still
kneeling before him, he, of a sudden, struck the sword aside, and,
stooping, he gripped the _bravo_ by the throat and dragged him from
the shelter of the porch to the water's edge. As iron were the