The figure stood motionless in the shadow of a column, muffled in a long black mantle, a black beretta partially concealing the face.

There was an icy inflection in the tones which sent a chill to Marcantonio’s heart as he listened.  One of the Chiefs of the Ten was always a member of the still more dreaded Inquisition, whose identity was never known, and the passionless voice held a hint of indisputable authority—­was his suffering wife to rely upon the mercy of the most puissant member of this terrible commission!

“Take my life for hers!” he implored, so beside himself with grief and terror that he disclosed his fear for Marina; “and bid her return to care for our little one.”

“Not so,” said the emotionless voice; “the Lady Marina hath disproved her right to care for a noble of Venice.  It would be to imperil his loyalty to leave the child under his mother’s influence.”

“My God!” cried Marcantonio bitterly; “take me to her and let us die together—­if the Republic may grant us so much grace!”

Again the Doge would have spoken compassionate words, but the other interposed: 

“The State hath little use for the lady’s life—­save in her keeping.  And she herself, perchance, hath less.  For so hath her strange whim wrought upon her that she knoweth naught of that which passeth around her, and one face to her is like another.”

The young Senator turned from the cruel speaker to the Doge in mute appealing agony.  The old man grasped his hand in a steadying clasp.

“Let us go to her,” said Leonardo, very low, when he could command his voice.  “She is like a lovely child—­resisting nothing.  It is some shock—­it will pass.”

* * * * *

And now there came a day when the proud heart of Venice was stirred to its core, for a messenger dashed breathless into the Council Chamber—­an excited, protesting throng of the populace surging in through the open door behind him.  “Fra Paolo!  Il caro Padre!  Morto!”

“Dead!” They started to their feet with ready imprecations.  Fra Paolo, who had left them an hour before, with the Signor Malipiero and his devoted secretary!  They exchanged glances of terrible comprehension—­the triumph of Venice was avenged upon the faithful servant of the State!

The Consiglio broke up in confusion.

“Eccellentissimi,” the messenger explained to the horror-stricken questioners, “they were five,—­rushing out from the dark of the convent wall against him when he came alone down the steps of the Ponte della Pugna,—­the villains held the others down.  And Fra Paolo lay dead on the Fondamenta—­stabbed in many places, as if one would cut him in bits—­and the stiletto still in his forehead!  And they sent me——­”

“‘Alone’? you ask me, Illustrissimi?—­Santissima Vergine! the whole city pouring in to the cries of those that found him; and the murderers off before one could touch them, and never a guard near!  They carried him into the Servi.—­And the people—­furious—­are storming the palazzo of the nuncio as I pass; and some one cries that the envoy is off to the Lido, with his fine friends, who start for Rome.  A thousand devils!—­May the good San Nicolo send them to feed the fishes!”