Deodati arose also, and looked inquiringly at Turchi.

The latter said, hurriedly: 

“I went to the house of the bailiff; he was not at home.  He has been sent for, and he will be here immediately with his officers to accompany me to my garden.  Oh!  I have terrible news to communicate; but my mind wanders, I am losing my senses.  I can tell nothing, particularly to you, Signor Deodati.  Unhappy old man!  Why did God reserve such a trial for your old age?”

“Another misfortune?  Speak, Simon, speak,” said Deodati, in suppliant tones, and trembling from anxiety.

Turchi fell, as if from exhaustion, upon a chair, and said, in a voice broken by sobs: 

“No, signor, ask me nothing; I could not break your heart by such stunning tidings.  Alas! alas! who anticipated such a misfortune?  My unhappy friend! my poor Geronimo!”

A torrent of tears fell from his eyes, and while Deodati and Mr. Van de Werve begged him to tell the cause of big extraordinary emotion, he stammered: 

“Oh! let me be silent; despair tortures my heart.  I can tell no one but the bailiff; he will soon be here.  If I could but doubt!  But no, it is too true; there is no more hope!  May the God of mercy receive his poor soul into heaven!”

“Of whom do you speak?” exclaimed Deodati.  “His soul?  Whose soul?  Geronimo’s?”

Steps were heard in the vestibule.  Simon Turchi went to the door, and said: 

“Here is the bailiff!  He will know the secret which is breaking my heart.”

The bailiff entered the room, looked around in surprise, and at last said to Simon Turchi, who continued to talk confusedly: 

“You have sent for me in all haste, in order to make a terrible revelation; I am here with my officers.  Have you discovered Geronimo’s assassins?  Speak, Simon, and tell us what you know.”

“So horrible is this secret, messire, that my tongue refuses to tell it.  Ah! if I could forever—­”

“Calm yourself, signor,” said the bailiff, with perfect self-possession.  “What have you learned?”

“But—­but I must be alone with you.  The news I have to communicate must not be revealed before Signor Deodati.”

The old man said, with tearful eyes: 

“You are cruel, Signor Simon!  What could you say more terrible?  You speak of Geronimo’s soul; you announce his death, and yet you leave me in this horrible doubt.  Speak, I conjure you.”

All that Simon Turchi had said was only a deception practised upon his auditors, in order to make them believe that grief had affected his mind, and to prepare the way for his revelation.

At last he appeared to yield to necessity, and said: