he _bravo's_ eyes.

"Saint John!" he cried, "that I should have followed such a one as
you, Excellency!"

But the priest continued warningly:

"As you obey, so hope for the mercy of Venice. You deal with those who
know how to reward their friends and to punish their enemies. Betray
us, and I swear that no death in all Italy shall be such a death as
you will die at dawn to-morrow."

He raised his voice, and summoned the gondolier to the steps of the
quay. The _bravo_ threw himself down upon the velvet cushions with the
threat still ringing in his ears.

"Excellency," he said, "I understand. They shall hear that you are
dead."

CHAPTER III

Fra Giovanni stepped from his gondola, and stood at the door of the
Palazzo Pisani exactly at a quarter to ten o'clock. Thirty minutes had
passed since he had talked with the _bravo_, Rocca, and had put him
to the proof. The time was enough, he said; the tale would have been
told, the glad news of his own death already enjoyed by those who
would have killed him.

Other men, perhaps, standing there upon the threshold of so daring an
emprise, would have known some temptation of fear or hesitation in
such a fateful moment; but the great Capuchin friar neither paused nor
hesitated. That strange confidence in his own mission, his belief
that God had called him to the protection of Venice, perchance even a
personal conceit in his own skill as a swordsman, sent him hurrying to
the work. It was a draught of life to him to see men tremble at his
word; the knowledge which treachery poured into his ear was a study
finer than that of all the manuscripts in all the libraries of Italy.
And he knew that he was going to the Palazzo Pisani to humble one of
the greatest in the city--to bring the sons of Princes on their knees
before him.

There were many lights in the upper stories of the great house, but
the ground floor, with its barred windows and cell-like chambers, was
unlighted. The priest saw horrid faces grinning through the bars; the
faces of fugitives, fleeing the justice of Venice, outcasts of the
city, murderers. But these outcasts, in their turn, were silent when
they saw who came to the house, and they spoke of the strange guest in
muted exclamations of surprise and wonder.

"Blood of Paul! do you see that? It is the Capuchin himself and alone.
Surely there will be work to do anon."

"Ay, but does he come alone? Saint John! I would sooner slit a hundred
throats than