“Poor Jacopo!”

“If I have lived through it all, ’tis because one mightier than the state hath not deserted me.  But, Don Camillo Monforte, there are crimes which pass beyond the powers of man to endure.”

The Bravo shuddered, and he moved among the despised graves in silence.

“They have then proved too ruthless even for thee?” said Don Camillo, who watched the contracting eye and heaving form of his companion, in wonder.

“Signore, they have.  I have witnessed, this night, a proof of their heartlessness and bad faith, that hath caused me to look forward to my own fate.  The delusion is over; from this hour I serve them no longer.”

The Bravo spoke with deep feeling, and his companion fancied, strange as it was coming from such a man, with an air of wounded integrity.  Don Camillo knew that there was no condition of life, however degraded or lost to the world, which had not its own particular opinions of the faith due to its fellows; and he had seen enough of the sinuous course of the oligarchy of Venice, to understand that it was quite possible its shameless and irresponsible duplicity might offend the principles of even an assassin.  Less odium was attached to men of that class, in Italy and at that day, than will be easily imagined in a country like this; for the radical defects and the vicious administration of the laws, caused an irritable and sensitive people too often to take into their own hands the right of redressing their own wrongs.  Custom had lessened the odium of the crime; and though society denounced the assassin himself, it is scarcely too much to say, that his employer was regarded with little more disgust than the religious of our time regard the survivor of a private combat.  Still it was not usual for nobles like Don Camillo to hold intercourse, beyond that which the required service exacted, with men of Jacopo’s cast; but the language and manner of the Bravo so strongly attracted the curiosity, and even the sympathy of his companion, that the latter unconsciously sheathed his rapier and drew nearer.

“Thy penitence and regrets, Jacopo, may lead thee yet nearer to virtue,” he said, “than mere abandonment of the Senate’s service.  Seek out some godly priest, and ease thy soul by confession and prayer.”

The Bravo trembled in every limb, and his eye turned wistfully to the countenance of the other.

“Speak, Jacopo; even I will hear thee, if thou would’st remove the mountain from thy breast.”

“Thanks, noble Signore! a thousand thanks for this glimpse of sympathy to which I have long been a stranger!  None know how dear a word of kindness is to one who has been condemned by all, as I have been.  I have prayed—­I have craved—­I have wept for some ear to listen to my tale, and I thought I had found one who would have heard me without scorn, when the cold policy of the Senate struck him.  I came here to commune with the hated dead, when chance brought us together.  Could I—­” the Bravo paused and looked doubtfully again at his companion.