“Hast thou no hope, Jacopo?” he asked.

“Carmelite, in my God.

“They cannot commit this wrong!  I shrived Antonio—­I witnessed his fate, and the Prince knows it!”

“What is a Prince and his justice, where the selfishness of a few rules!  Father, thou art new in the Senate’s service.”

“I shall not presume to say that God will blast those who do this deed, for we cannot trace the mysteries of his wisdom.  This life and all this world can offer, are but specks in his omniscient eye, and what to us seems evil may be pregnant with good.—­Hast thou faith in thy Redeemer, Jacopo?”

The prisoner laid his hand upon his heart and smiled, with the calm assurance that none but those who are thus sustained can feel.

“We will again pray, my son.”

The Carmelite and Jacopo kneeled side by side, the latter bowing his head to the block, while the monk uttered a final appeal to the mercy of the Deity.  The former arose, but the latter continued in the suppliant attitude.  The monk was so full of holy thoughts that, forgetting his former wishes, he was nearly content the prisoner should pass into the fruition of that hope which elevated his own mind.  The officer and executioner drew near, the former touching the arm of Father Anselmo, and pointing towards the distant dial.

“The moment is near,” he whispered, more from habit than in any tenderness to the prisoner.

The Carmelite turned instinctively towards the palace, forgetting in the sudden impulse all but his sense of earthly justice.  There were forms at the windows, and he fancied a signal to stay the impending blow was about to be given.

“Hold!” he exclaimed.  “For the love of Maria of most pure memory, be not too hasty!”

The exclamation was repeated by a shrill female voice, and then Gelsomina, eluding every effort to arrest her, rushed through the Dalmatians, and reached the group between the granite columns.  Wonder and curiosity agitated the multitude, and a deep murmur ran through the square.

“’Tis a maniac!” cried one.

“’Tis a victim of his arts!” said another, for when men have a reputation for any particular vice, the world seldom fails to attribute all the rest.

Gelsomina seized the bonds of Jacopo, and endeavored frantically to release his arms.

“I had hoped thou would’st have been spared this sight, poor Gessina!” said the condemned.

“Be not alarmed!” she answered, gasping for breath.  “They do it in mockery; ’t is one of their wiles to mislead—­but they cannot—­no, they dare not harm a hair of thy head, Carlo!”

“Dearest Gelsomina!”

“Nay, do not hold me; I will speak to the citizens, and tell them all.  They are angry now, but when they know the truth they will love thee, Carlo, as I do.”

“Bless thee—­bless thee!—­I would thou hadst not come.”

“Fear not for me!  I am little used to such a crowd, but thou wilt see that I shall dare to speak them fair, and to make known the truth boldly.  I want but breath.”