Surely it was the Chief of the Ten who had spoken!  Fra Antonio trembled from head to foot; but was he not already far enough within the narrow, winding passage to be hidden from the cruel gaze of that man of power?  Half an inch might make the difference between life and death; he folded his black gown closer about him—­stealthily—­so that it might not rustle, watching the faint shadow on the pavement in agony—­what if his hand had been seen as he passed it behind him to gather up the folds!

Those words could not be meant for him; they were merely a general order; there were twenty men—­forty men in that company more wicked than he!  He could not turn back and face them to glide into his place again; it would be certain death; but when the Chief of the Ten or Father Gianmaria should begin to speak, he must go on.

He lifted one foot to be ready; a great sweat broke out on his forehead—­would this silence never end?  He dared not stir until there should be words to hold the crowd; for if he should be caught——­

Were they speaking?—­His heart thumped so that he could not hear.  Santa Maria!—­death could not be worse!

“Thou art summoned; they are calling thee,” said Fra Giulio, close beside him, in a low, hard voice that changed to one more compassionate as the friar turned his livid face toward him.  “I know not thy fault, but Fra Paolo will plead for thee; for thou art ill, verily.”

“Fra Paolo is no man of mercy.”

“Nay, but of justice.  He will not remember thy discourtesies.”

“Discourtesies!” ay, it was true; Fra Giulio did not know—­nobody knew; he would take courage and plead to be forgiven his manifold “discourtesies” toward this idol of the Servi; it was for this that he was summoned!  The palace guards were approaching the low passage, and the extremity of his need steadied him; he rallied all his powers for a last effort, and, shaking off their touch, advanced into the court—­his face, withered and pain-stricken, might have plead for him but for the strange hardness of the lines.

“It was a sudden malady that bade me seek my cell,” he gasped.  “I knew not that your Excellency had need of me.”

He was a ghastly thing in his fear.

The inexorable Chief of the Ten surveyed him in silence for a brief moment that seemed unending.

“Ay, Fra Antonio, we have need of thee—­more than another.  For word hath reached Venice, privately, from special friendly sources in Rome, that thou art come hither charged with a message of vital import to a trusted servant of the Republic.  Thou hast leave of the Signoria to declare it in this presence.”

Fra Antonio opened his dry lips and framed some words of which he heard no echo.

“The Inquiry of Venice is satisfied,” said the Chief.  “Thou art the man whom we seek.  Conduct him to the gondola of the Piombi.”

Fra Antonio fell upon his knees in wild supplication as the guards gathered around him, but the Father Superior detained them with a prohibitory motion.