r had his voice been more sonorous or more
sure.

"Countess," he exclaimed, as he stepped boldly to the table and
confronted them, "I bring you a message from Andrea, the lord of
Pisa!"

He had expected that the woman would cry out, or that the men would
leap to their feet and draw their swords; but the supreme moment
passed and no one spoke. A curious silence reigned in the place. From
without there floated up the gay notes of a gondolier's carol. The
splash of oars was heard, and the low murmur of voices. But within the
room you could have counted the tick of a watch--almost the beating of
a man's heart. And the woman was the first to find her tongue. She had
looked at the friar as she would have looked at the risen dead; but,
suddenly, with an effort which brought back the blood to her cheeks,
she rose from her seat and began to speak.

"Who are you?" she asked; "and why do you come to this house?"

Fra Giovanni advanced to the table so that they could see his face.

"Signora," he said, "the reason of my coming to this house I have
already told you. As to your other question, I am the Capuchin friar,
Giovanni, whom you desired your servant Rocca to kill at the church of
San Salvatore an hour ago."

The woman sank back into the chair; the blood left her face; she would
have swooned had not curiosity proved stronger than her terror.

"The judgment of God!" she cried.

Again, for a spell, there was silence in the room. The priest stood at
the end of the table telling himself that he must hold these four
in talk until the bells of San Luca struck ten o'clock, or pay for
failure with his life. The men, in their turn, were asking themselves
if he were alone.

"You are the Capuchin friar, Giovanni," exclaimed one of them
presently, taking courage of the silence, "what, then, is your message
from the Count of Pisa?"

"My message, signore, is this--that at ten o'clock to-night, the Count
of Pisa will have ceased to live."

A strange cry, terrible in its pathos, escaped the woman's lips. All
had risen to their feet again. The swords of the three leaped from
their scabbards. The instant of the priest's death seemed at hand. But
he stood, resolute, before them.

"At ten o'clock," he repeated sternly, "the Count of Pisa will have
ceased to live. That is his message, signori, to one in this house.
And to you, the Marquis of Cittadella, there is another message."

He turned to one of the three who had begun to rail