poured cold water on that, and,
pointing to my lute and my copy of "Plutarch's Lives," was wont to say
that there was enough happiness there for my life without seeking to
reopen the past or delve into the future.

One night--I remember it well; it was the night of Pentecost, in the
year 1555--I went up, at Camus' request, to his apartment. I had not
seen the old man for some time, and our talk was longer than usual. By
some chance we began to discuss poisons, and Camus opened the stores of
his curious knowledge. He had studied, he said, with a strange smile,
the works of the Rabbi Moses bin Maimon, and was possessed of antidotes
for each of the sixteen poisons; but there was one venom, outside the
sixteen, the composition of which he knew, but to which there was no
antidote. On my inquiry he stated that this was the poison used by the
Borgia, and it was prepared as follows:

A bear having been caught, it was made to swallow a draught of _Acqua
di Borgia_. On this beginning to take effect the bear was suspended
head downwards. Whilst the animal was in convulsions there poured from
his mouth a foamy stream. This, collected in a silver vessel and
securely bottled, was the Borgia venom, and to this there was no
antidote.

I made some remark of horror, and he laughed a dry, crackling laugh,
and rose from his seat.

"I will show you," he said, and was moving towards a press when we were
startled by a cry from the street--a cry for help:

"_A moi_! _A moi_!"

CHAPTER II

I BECOME THE OWNER OF A RING

I started from my seat, and Camus, with a turn and a step, reached the
window, where, resting his hands on the mullions, he leaned far out. I
was on his heels; but the window was narrow, a mere slit, and so I
could see nothing below. Late as it was the cry had, however, reached
other ears than ours as well. Here and there a dim light glowed for an
instant or so in an overhanging window. Here and there a shadowy
figure appeared at a balcony, only to vanish like a ghost after peering
for a moment in the direction of the sound. This was all the interest,
all the attention it excited, and this spoke for the times.

"What is it? Can you see anything?" I asked, craning over Camus'
shoulder; and, as if in answer to my question, the cry rang out again,
just below the window:

"_A moi_! _Au secours_!" Then came an oath, and the rasp of steel.

"They are killing someone there," said Camus; "killing with