“This is impossible, since it would involve a loss of all his fair hopes and illustrious fortunes.”

“He consoled himself, Signore, with the possession of the heiress of Tiepolo’s love, and with her riches.”

Again there was a movement among the Three, which all their practised restraint, and the conventional dignity of their mysterious functions, could not prevent.

“Let the keepers withdraw,” said the inquisitor of the scarlet robe.  So soon as the prisoner was alone with the Three, and their permanent officer, the examination continued; the Senators themselves, trusting to the effect produced by their masks, and some feints, speaking as occasion offered.

“This is important intelligence that thou hast communicated, Jacopo,” continued he of the robe of flame.  “It may yet redeem thy life, wert thou wise enough to turn it to account.”

“What would your eccellenza at my hands?  It is plain that the Council know of the flight of Don Camillo, nor will I believe that eyes, which so seldom are closed, have not yet missed the daughter of the Tiepolo.”

“Both are true, Jacopo; but what hast thou to say of the means?  Remember, that as thou findest favor with the council, thine own fate will be decided.”

The prisoner suffered another of those freezing gleams to cross his face, which invariably caused his examiners to bend their looks aside.

“The means of escape cannot be wanting to a bold lover, Signore,” he replied.  “Don Camillo is rich, and might employ a thousand agents, had he need of them.”

“Thou art equivocating; ’twill be the worse for thee, that thou triflest with the Council—­who are these agents?”

“He had a generous household, Eccellenza;—­many hardy gondoliers, and servitors of all conditions.”

“Of these we have nothing to learn.  He hath escaped by other means—­or art thou sure he hath escaped at all?”

“Signore, is he in Venice?”

“Nay, that we ask of thee.  Here is an accusation, found in the lion’s mouth, which charges thee with his assassination.”

“And the Donna Violetta’s, too, eccellenza?”

“Of her, we have heard nothing.  What answer dost make to the charge?”

“Signore, why should I betray my own secrets?”

“Ha! art thou equivocating and faithless?  Remember that we have a prisoner beneath the leads, who can extract the truth from thee.”

Jacopo raised his form to such an altitude as one might fancy to express the mounting of a liberated spirit.  Still his eye was sad, and, spite of an effort to the contrary, his voice melancholy.

“Senators,” he said, “your prisoner beneath the leads is free.”

“How! thou art trifling, in thy despair!”

“I speak truth.  The liberation, so long delayed, hath come at last.”

“Thy father——­”

“Is dead,” interrupted Jacopo, solemnly.

The two elder members of the Council looked at each other in surprise, while their junior colleague listened with the interest of one who was just entering on a noviciate of secret and embarrassing duties.  The former consulted together, and then they communicated as much of their opinions to the Signor Soranzo, as they deemed necessary to the occasion.