This pleasant anticipation was cut short abruptly by the total disappearance of the man whose death was a preliminary to the wage he anticipated so greedily.  Mystified beyond measure, he let his cloak fall back again, and began to peer into the shadows as though some miracle had been wrought and the priest carried suddenly from earth to that heaven whither he had meant to send him so unceremoniously.

“Blood of Paul!” he exclaimed angrily, turning about and about again, “am I losing my eyes?  A plague upon the place and the shadows.”

He stamped his foot impotently, and was about to run back by the way he had come when a voice spoke in the shadows; and at the sound of the voice, the sword fell from the man’s hand and he reeled back as from a blow.

“Rocca Zicani, the Prince is waiting for you.”

The assassin staggered against the door of a house, and stood there as one paralyzed.  He had heard those words once before in the dungeons of Naples.  They had been spoken by the Inquisitors who came to Italy with one of the Spanish princes.  Instantly he recalled the scene where first he had listened to them—­the dungeon draped in black—­the white-hot irons which had seared his flesh; the rack which had maimed his limbs, the masked men who had tortured him.

“Great God!” he moaned, “not that—­not that—­”

The priest stepped from the shadows and stood in a place where the feeble light of an oil lamp could fall upon his face.  The laugh hovered still about his lips.  He regarded the trembling man with a contempt he would not conceal.

“Upon my word, Signer Rocca,” he exclaimed, “this is a poor welcome to an old friend.”

The bravo, who had fallen on his knees, for he believed that a trick had again delivered him into the hands of his enemies, looked up at the words, and stared at the monk as at an apparition.

“Holy Virgin!” he cried, “it is the Prince of Iseo.”

The priest continued in the jester’s tone: 

“As you say, old comrade, the Prince of Iseo.  Glory to God for the good fortune which puts you in my path to-night!  Oh, you are very glad to see me, Signor Rocca, I’ll swear to that.  What, the fellow whom my hands snatched from the rack in the house of the Duke of Naples—­has he no word for me?  And he carries his naked sword in his hand; he has the face of a woman and his knees tremble.  What means this?”

He had seemed to speak in jest, but while the cowed man was still kneeling before him, he, of a sudden, struck the sword aside, and, stooping, he gripped the bravo by the throat and dragged him from the shelter of the porch to the water’s edge.  As iron were the relentless hands; the man’s eyes started from his head, the very breath seemed to be crushed out of him in the grip of the terrible priest.

“Signor Rocca, what means this?” the friar repeated.  “A naked sword in your hand and sweat upon your brow.  Oh, oh! a tale, indeed!  Shall I read it to you, or shall I raise my voice and fetch those who will read it for me—­those who have the irons heated, and the boot so made for your leg that no last in Italy shall better it.  Speak, rascal, shall I read you the tale?”