Other men, perhaps, standing there upon the threshold of so daring an emprise, would have known some temptation of fear or hesitation in such a fateful moment; but the great Capuchin friar neither paused nor hesitated.  That strange confidence in his own mission, his belief that God had called him to the protection of Venice, perchance even a personal conceit in his own skill as a swordsman, sent him hurrying to the work.  It was a draught of life to him to see men tremble at his word; the knowledge which treachery poured into his ear was a study finer than that of all the manuscripts in all the libraries of Italy.  And he knew that he was going to the Palazzo Pisani to humble one of the greatest in the city—­to bring the sons of Princes on their knees before him.

There were many lights in the upper stories of the great house, but the ground floor, with its barred windows and cell-like chambers, was unlighted.  The priest saw horrid faces grinning through the bars; the faces of fugitives, fleeing the justice of Venice, outcasts of the city, murderers.  But these outcasts, in their turn, were silent when they saw who came to the house, and they spoke of the strange guest in muted exclamations of surprise and wonder.

“Blood of Paul! do you see that?  It is the Capuchin himself and alone.  Surely there will be work to do anon.”

“Ay, but does he come alone?  Saint John!  I would sooner slit a hundred throats than have his shadow fall on me.  Was it not he that hanged Orso and the twelve!  A curse upon the day he came to Venice.”

So they talked in whispers, but the priest had passed already into the great hall of the palace and was speaking to a lackey there.

“My friend,” he said, “I come in the name of the Signori.  If you would not hear from them to-morrow, announce me to none.”

The lackey drew back, quailing before the threat.

“Excellency,” he exclaimed, “I am but a servant—­”

“And shall find a better place as you serve Venice faithfully.”

He passed on with noiseless steps, mounting the splendid marble staircase upon which the masterpieces of Titian and of Paolo Veronese looked down.  At the head of the stairs, there was a painted door, which he had but to open to find himself face to face with those who were still telling each other that he was dead.

For an instant, perhaps, a sense of the danger of his mission possessed him.  He knew well that one false step, one word undeliberated, would be paid for with his own blood.  But even in the face of this reckoning he did not hesitate.  He was there to save Venice from her enemies; the God of Venice would protect him.  And so without word or warning, he opened the door and stood, bold and unflinching, before those he had come to accuse.

There were four at table, and one was a woman.  The priest knew her well.  She had been called the most beautiful woman in Venice—­Catherine, Countess of Treviso.  Still young, with a face which spoke of ambition and of love, her white neck glittered with the jewels it carried, her dress of blue velvet was such a dress as only a noblewoman of Venice could wear.  A queenly figure, the friar said, yet one he would so humble presently that never should she hold up her head again.