“I crave your Excellency’s pardon.  For the better ruling of this community and the clearing of all the innocent among our brotherhood, I have summoned hither every soul under my rule.  That no scandal may arise, your Excellency will permit that the charge under which this arrest is made be declared.”

Assent was given by an impatient gesture.

“Fra Antonio, while he hath been a recipient of our hospitality,” said the Superior, “is described by trustworthy advices from our Chapter in Rome, but just received, as a person who hath designs upon the life of a member of this community.”

“It is a false scandal,” cried Fra Antonio, who had found his voice at last.  “I shall not be condemned without proof!”

“The truth is known,” said Fra Paolo, leaning toward him and speaking low.  “It were better for thee to confess—­or depart in silence.”

But the man was beside himself with fear; he caught at his last, desperate chance of favor, dragging himself to the feet of Fra Paolo and pouring out an abject tale of petty jealousies and offenses for which he obsequiously craved pardon of this “idol of the convent,” protesting, with horrible oaths, that he was guilty of nothing more.

The rare shade of compassion that had softened Fra Paolo’s face when he gave his warning, deepened to a glory and his eyes shone with a grace that was like love, as he raised the wretched man and strove to arrest his torrent of words. “God heareth thee, my brother,” he said pleadingly; “have pity on thine own soul.  Kneel to Him alone in thy great need.  But spend not thy strength with trifles that demean us both.  If thine heart hath aught against me, I forgive it.”

Then turning to the Chief he besought that the trial should be short—­“For the man is ill, and I would have quiet speech with him.”

“For the honor of the Servi, let the matter be dispatched, and let proof be brought,” the Superior demanded, surprised and displeased at any softness in Fra Paolo, whose dominant note was justice, rather than mercy.

“We will grant him the favor of a farewell collation ere he taketh leave of his entertainers,” said the Giustinian.  “Let the refection be brought.”

The friars exchanged glances of astonishment and dismay as a dish of fruit and of white bread were brought forward by two of the ducal guards, on a costly salver wrought with the arms of Venice.  It was like the simple refreshment they had often carried to Fra Paolo’s cell when he had been absorbed by some train of thought, which, according to his wont, he would not suspend for any hour of sleep or meals until the problem had been conquered.  Fra Giulio trembled; he would have said those were the very grapes he had chosen to tempt Fra Paolo’s slender appetite,—­white, with the veins of purple,—­all as he had left them on his desk that day, with the plate of fine white bread, when the midday meal was served—­but in no lordly dish.