t island," he said. "Do not waste such poor bribes on
me. I care for no power but the power to wipe out the work of these last
years. Failing that, I want nothing that you or any other man can give."

Gamba was silent a moment. He turned aside into the embrasure of the
window, and when he spoke again it was in a voice broken with grief.

"Your Highness," he said, "if your choice is made, ours is made also. It
is a hard choice, but these are fratricidal hours. We have come to the
parting of the ways."

The Duke made no sign, and Gamba went on with gathering anguish: "We
would have gone to the world's end with your Highness for our leader!"

"With a leader whom you could lead," Odo interposed. He went up to Gamba
and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Speak out, man," he said. "Say what
you were sent to say. Am I a prisoner?"

The hunchback burst into tears. Odo, with his arms crossed, stood
leaning against the window. The other's anguish seemed to deepen his
detachment.

"Your Highness--your Highness--" Gamba stammered.

The Duke made an impatient gesture. "Come, make an end," he said.

Gamba fell back with a profound bow.

"We do not ask the surrender of your Highness's person," he said.

"Not even that?" Odo returned with a faint sneer.

Gamba flushed to the temples, but the retort died on his lips.

"Your Highness," he said, scarce above a whisper, "the gates are
guarded; but the word for tonight is 'Humilitas.'" He knelt and kissed
Odo's hand. Then he rose and passed out of the room...

* * * * *

Before dawn the Duke left the palace. The high emotions of the night had
ebbed. He saw himself now, in the ironic light of morning, as a fugitive
too harmless to be worth pursuing. His enemies had let him keep his
sword because they had no cause to fear it. Alone he passed through the
gardens of the palace, and out into the desert darkness of the streets.
Skirting the wall of the Benedictine convent where Fulvia had lodged, he
gained a street leading to the marketplace. In the pallor of the waning
night the ancient monuments of his race stood up mournful and deserted
as a line of tombs. The city seemed a grave-yard and he the ineffectual
ghost of its dead past. He reached the gates and gave the watchword. The
gates were guarded, as he had been advised; but the captain of the watch
let him pass without show of hesitation or curiosity. Though he made no
effort at disguise he went forth unre