f the three. His eyes were very bright,
and you could see the long scar plainly shining on his cheek.

"I am a sinner too," said he, "but this night I will sleep clean." He
made to go.

"Do you desert me, comrade?" Can Grande asked.

The old dog turned upon his master.

"Mother of Pity!" he said in a whisper, "you are never going after
this?"

"I am going, good sir. What of you?" Baldinanza blinked hard. "I am your
servant, Can Grande," he said shortly; "where you go I follow. That is
how I read the Book of the Law."

"Well, Checco," the tyrant went on, turning to the youngster still at
the table, "what of you?"

Francesco threw up his arms. "Never, Excellency, never!" he groaned in
his anguish. "I dare not, I dare not!" He concealed neither his tears,
nor his despair, nor his bodily fear.

Can Grande shrugged. "Are you ready, Ubaldo?" he asked.

Baldinanza bowed his head. The two men cloaked and masked themselves,
and went out of the palace. The moon shone broad over the Piazza; it was
a cold white night. They crossed at the farther corner, went up a few
steps, and then were lost in the glooms of the arched way.

They never came out alive. Six hired daggers hacked the life out of them
and their hearts from their bodies. To this day the unwholesome place is
called for a testimony the "Volto Barbaro," the horrid entry. So died in
his sin Can Grande II., a man who feared nothing and won nothing but
fear, and Can Signorio his son reigned in his stead. You might trust the
cloth-white lackey and the stricken conscience of Francesco della Rocca
Rossa to spread the news they had.

VIII

THE REPROACHES

A scared city of blank casements, a city of citizens feverishly asking
questions whose answers they knew beforehand, a city of swift feet and
hushed voices, was Verona on the morrow of Can Grande's murder. They
carried the two torn bodies covered with one sheet to Sant' Anastasia,
and laid them there, not in state but just huddled out of sight, while
the bishop and his canons sang a requiem, and "Dirige" and "Placebo"
went whining about the timbers of the roof. Nobody mourned the man, yet
he had his due. His yellow-skinned wife knelt at his feet; Can Signorio,
the new tyrant, frozen rigid, armed in mail, knelt at his head. The
mercenaries held the nave, the bodyguard the door, archers lounged in
the Piazza. All this parade of force was mere superfluity; Verona had no
desire to revolt. The Veronese were f