“Didst thou say, condemned of the common judges-father?”

“Sentenced to die, highness, by a decree of the criminal tribunals.”

The prince appeared relieved.  So long as the affair had been public, there was at least reason to believe he might indulge his love of the species, by listening further, without offence to the tortuous policy of the state.  Glancing his eye at the motionless inquisitor, as if to seek approbation, he advanced a step nearer to the Carmelite, with increasing interest in the application.

“By what authority, reverend priest, dost thou impeach the decision of the judges?” he demanded.

“Signore, as I have just said, in virtue of knowledge gained in the exercise of my holy office.  He has laid bare his soul to me, as one whose feet were in the grave; and, though offending, like all born of woman, towards his God, he is guiltless as respects the state.”

“Thinkest thou, father, that the law would ever reach its victim, were we to listen only to self-accusations?  I am old, monk, and have long worn that troublesome cap,” pointing to the horned bonnet, which lay near his hand, the symbol of his state, “and in my day, I do not recall the criminal that has not fancied himself the victim of untoward circumstances.”

“That men apply this treacherous solace to their consciences, one of my vocation has not to learn.  Our chief task is to show the delusion of those, who, while condemning their own sins by words of confession and self-abasement, make a merit of humility; but, Doge of Venice, there is still a virtue in the sacred rite I have this evening been required to perform, which can overcome the mounting of the most exalted spirit.  Many attempt to deceive themselves at the confessional, while, by the power of God, few succeed.”

“Praised be the blessed mother and the incarnate son, that it is so!” returned the prince, struck by the mild faith of the monk, and crossing himself reverently.  “Father, thou hast forgotten to name the condemned?”

“It is a certain Jacopo Frontoni;—­a reputed bravo,” The start, the changing color, and the glance of the prince of Venice, were full of natural surprise.

“Callest thou the bloodiest stiletto that ever disgraced the city, the weapon of a reputed bravo?  The arts of the monster have prevailed over thy experience, monk!—­the true confession of such a wretch would be but a history of bloody and revolting crimes.”

“I entered his cell with this opinion, but I left it convinced that the public sentiment has done him wrong.  If your Highness will deign hear his tale, you will think him a fit subject for your pity, rather than for punishment.”

“Of all the criminals of my reign, this is the last in whose favor I could have imagined there was aught to be said!—­Speak freely, Carmelite; for curiosity is as strong as wonder.”

So truly did the Doge give utterance to his feelings, that he momentarily forgot the presence of the inquisitor, whose countenance might have shown him that the subject was getting to be grave.