“At ten o’clock,” he repeated sternly, “the Count of Pisa will have ceased to live.  That is his message, signori, to one in this house.  And to you, the Marquis of Cittadella, there is another message.”

He turned to one of the three who had begun to rail at him, and raised his hand as in warning.  So great was the curiosity to hear his words that the swords were lowered again, and again there could be heard the ticking of a clock in the great room.

“For me—­a message!  Surely I am favored, signore.”

“Of that you shall be the judge, since, at dawn to-morrow, your head will lie on the marble slab between the columns of the Piazzetta.”

They greeted him with shouts of ridicule.

“A prophet—­a prophet!”

“A prophet indeed,” he answered quietly, “who has yet a word to speak to you, Andrea Foscari.”

“To me!” exclaimed the man addressed, who was older than the others, and who wore the stola of the nobility.

“Ay, to you, who are about to become a fugitive from the justice of Venice.  Midnight shall see you hunted in the hills, my lord; no house shall dare to shelter you; no hand shall give you bread.  When you return to the city you would have betrayed, the very children shall mock you for a beggar.”

Foscari answered with an oath, and drew back.  The third of the men, a youth who wore a suit of white velvet, and whose vest was ablaze with gold and jewels, now advanced jestingly.

“And for me, most excellent friar?”

“For you, Gian Mocenigo, a pardon in the name of that Prince of Venice whose house you have dishonored.”

Again they replied to him with angry gibes.

“A proof—­a proof—­we will put you to the proof, friar—­here and now, or, by God, a prophet shall pay with his life.”

He saw that they were driven to the last point.  While the woman stood as a figure of stone at the table, the three advanced toward him and drove him back before their threatening swords.  The new silence was the silence of his death anticipated.  He thought that his last word was spoken in vain.  Ten o’clock would never strike, he said.  Yet even as hope seemed to fail him, and he told himself that the end had come, the bells of the city began to strike the hour, and the glorious music of their echoes floated over the sleeping waters.

“A proof, you ask me for a proof, signori,” he exclaimed triumphantly.  “Surely, the proof lies in yonder room, where all the world may see it.”

He pointed to a door opening in the wall of mirrors, and giving access to a smaller chamber.  Curiosity drove the men thither.  They threw open the door; they entered the room; they reeled back drunk with their own terror.

For the body of Andrea, lord of Pisa, lay, still warm, upon the marble pavement of the chamber, and the dagger with which he had been stabbed was yet in his heart.

“A proof—­have I not given you a proof?” the priest cried again, while the woman’s terrible cry rang through the house, and the three stood close together, as men upon whom a judgment has fallen.