“Thou wert told aright,” said Angelo, wonderingly.  “The man at whose name thou wert wont to shudder—­against whom thou hast so often warned me—­will die at sunrise.”

“So soon!—­so soon!—­Oh, Mother of Mercy!—­fly! thou art about the person of the Senator, thou hast high favour with him; fly! down on thy knees, and as thou hopest for God’s grace, rise not till thou hast won the Provencal’s life.”

“She raves,” muttered Angelo, with white lips.

“I do not rave,—­boy!” screeched the Sister, wildly, “know that my daughter was his leman.  He disgraced our house,—­a house haughtier than his own.  Sinner that I was, I vowed revenge.  His boy—­they had only one!—­was brought up in a robber’s camp;—­a life of bloodshed—­a death of doom—­a futurity of hell—­were before him.  I plucked the child from such a fate—­I bore him away—­I told the father he was dead—­I placed him in the path to honourable fortunes.  May my sin be forgiven me!  Angelo Villani, thou art that child;—­Walter de Montreal is thy father.  But now, trembling on the verge of death, I shudder at the vindictive thoughts I once nourished.  Perhaps—­”

“Sinner and accursed!” interrupted Villani, with a loud shout:—­“sinner and accursed thou art indeed!  Know that it was I who betrayed thy daughter’s lover!—­by the son’s treason dies the father!”

Not a moment more did he tarry:  he waited not to witness the effect his words produced.  As one frantic—­as one whom a fiend possesses or pursues—­he rushed from the Convent—­he flew through the desolate streets.  The death-bell came, first indistinct, then loud, upon his ear.  Every sound seemed to him like the curse of God; on—­on—­he passed the more deserted quarter—­crowds swept before him—­he was mingled with the living stream, delayed, pushed back—­thousands on thousands around, before him.  Breathless, gasping, he still pressed on—­he forced his way—­he heard not—­he saw not—­all was like a dream.  Up burst the sun over the distant hills!—­the bell ceased!  From right to left he pushed aside the crowd—­his strength was as a giant’s.  He neared the fatal spot.  A dead hush lay like a heavy air over the multitude.  He heard a voice, as he pressed along, deep and clear—­it was the voice of his father!—­it ceased—­the audience breathed heavily—­they murmured—­they swayed to and fro.  On, on, went Angelo Villani.  The guards of the Senator stopped his way;—­he dashed aside their pikes—­he eluded their grasp—­he pierced the armed barrier—­he stood on the Place of the Capitol.  “Hold, hold!” he would have cried—­but horror struck him dumb.  He beheld the gleaming axe—­he saw the bended neck.  Ere another breath passed his lips, a ghastly and trunkless face was raised on high—­Walter de Montreal was no more!

Villani saw—­swooned not—­shrunk not—­breathed not!—­but he turned his eyes from that lifted head, dropping gore, to the balcony, in which, according to custom, sate, in solemn pomp, the Senator of Rome—­and the face of that young man was as the face of a demon!