relentless hands; the man's eyes started from his head, the very
breath seemed to be crushed out of him in the grip of the terrible
priest.

"Signor Rocca, what means this?" the friar repeated. "A naked sword in
your hand and sweat upon your brow. Oh, oh! a tale, indeed! Shall I
read it to you, or shall I raise my voice and fetch those who will
read it for me--those who have the irons heated, and the boot so made
for your leg that no last in Italy shall better it. Speak, rascal,
shall I read you the tale?"

"Mercy, Prince, for the love of God!"

The priest released the pressure of his hands and let the other sink
at his feet.

"Who sent you, rogue?" he asked. "Who pays your wage?"

"I dare not tell you, Excellency."

"Dare not! _you_ dare not--you, whom a word will put to torture
greater than any you have dreamed of in your worst agonies; _you_ dare
not."

"Excellency, the Countess of Treviso; I am her servant."

"And the man who sent her to the work--his name?"

"Andrea, Count of Pisa, Excellency."

The priest stepped back as one whose curiosity was entirely satisfied.

"Ah! I thought so. And the price they paid you, knave?"

"Forty silver ducats, Excellency,"

"Ho, ho! so that is the price of a friar in Venice."

The _bravo_ sought to join in the jest.

"Had they known it was the Prince of Iseo, it had been a hundred
thousand, Excellency."

Fra Giovanni did not listen to him. His quick brain was solving a
strange problem--the problem of the price that these people, in their
turn, should pay to Venice. When he had solved it, he turned to the
cringing figure at his feet.

"Signor Rocca," he said, "do you know of what I am thinking?"

"Of mercy, Excellency; of mercy for one who has not deserved it."

"But who can deserve it?"

"Excellency, hearken to me. I swear by all the saints--"

"In whose name you blaspheme, rascal. Have I not heard your oath in
Naples when the irons seared your flesh? Shall I listen again when the
fire is being made ready, and there is burning coal beneath the bed
you will lie upon to-night, Signor Rocca?"

"Oh! for God's sake, Excellency!"

"Not so; for the sake of Venice, rather."

"I will be your slave--I swear it on the cross--I will give my life--"

"Your precious life, Signor Rocca!--nay, what a profligate you are!"

Fra Giovanni's tone, perhaps, betrayed him. The trembling man began to
take heart a little.

"Prove me Excellency," he whined; "prove me here a