“The man is merciful—­he will not shut thee out!” murmured the parent.

“They cannot leave thee to die alone, father!”

“Son, I am with my God—­yet I would gladly have thee by my side!—­Didst thou say—­thy mother and thy sister were dead!”

“Dead!”

“Thy young sister, too?”

“Father, both.  They are saints in Heaven.”

The old man breathed thick, and there was silence.  Jacopo felt a hand moving in the darkness, as if in quest of him.  He aided the effort, and laid the member in reverence on his own head.

“Maria undefiled, and her Son, who is God!—­bless thee, Jacopo!” whispered a voice, that to the excited imagination of the kneeling Bravo appeared to hover in the air.  The solemn words were followed by a quivering sigh.  Jacopo hid his face in the blanket, and prayed.  After which there was deep quiet.

“Father!” he added, trembling at his own smothered voice.

He was unanswered; stretching out a hand, it touched the features of a corpse.  With a firmness that had the quality of desperation, he again bowed his head and uttered fervently a prayer for the dead.

When the door of the cell opened, Jacopo appeared to the keepers, with a dignity of air that belongs only to character, and which was heightened by the scene in which he had just been an actor.  He raised his hands, and stood immovable while the manacles were replaced.  This office done, they walked away together in the direction of the secret chamber.  It was not long ere all were again in their places, before the Council of Three.

“Jacopo Frontoni,” resumed the secretary, “thou art suspected of being privy to another dark deed that hath had place of late within our city.  Hast thou any knowledge of a noble Calabrian, who hath high claim to the senate’s honors, and who hath long had his abode in Venice?”

“Signore, I have.”

“Hast thou had aught of concern with him?”

“Signore, yes.”

A movement of common interest made itself apparent among the auditors.

“Dost thou know where the Don Camillo Monforte is at present.”

Jacopo hesitated.  He so well understood the means of intelligence possessed by the Council, that he doubted how far it might be prudent to deny his connexion with the flight of the lovers.  Besides, at that moment, his mind was deeply impressed with a holy sentiment of truth.

“Canst thou say, why the young duca is not to be found in his palace?” repeated the secretary.

“Illustrissimo, he hath quitted Venice for ever.”

“How canst thou know this?—­Would he make a confidant of a common Bravo?”

The smile which crossed the features of Jacopo was full of superiority; it caused the conscious agent of the Secret Tribunal to look closely at his papers, like one who felt its power.

“Art thou his confidant—­I ask again?”

“Signore, in this, I am—­I have the assurance from the mouth of Don Camillo Monforte himself, that he will not return.”