He leaned over and pulled toward him a sheet of paper.  Then he took a pair of scissors and cut the sheet into four pieces; these he proceeded to fold up until they were about the size of a shilling, and identically alike.  All the time he was talking.

“Yes, it will be a dangerous business,” he said, slowly, “and one requiring great forethought and caution.  Then I do not say it is altogether impossible one might escape; though then the warning, the lesson of this act of punishment might not be so effective:  they might mistake it for a Camorra affair, though the Cardinal himself already knows otherwise.”

He opened a bottle of red ink that stood by.

“The simplest means are sufficient,” said he.  “This is how we used to settle affairs in ’48.”

He opened one of the pieces of paper, and put a cross in red on it, which he dried on the blotting-paper.  Then he folded it up again, threw the four pieces into a pasteboard box, put down the lid, and shook the box lightly.

“Whoever draws the red cross,” he said, almost indifferently, “carries out the command of the Council.  Have you anything to say, gentlemen—­to suggest?”

“Yes,” said Reitzei, boldly.

Lind regarded him.

“What is the use of the ballot?” said the pallid-faced young man.  “What if one volunteers?  I should myself like to settle the business of the scoundrelly Cardinal.”

Lind shook his head.

“Impossible.  Calabressa thought of a volunteer; he was mad!  There must be a ballot.  Come; shall we proceed?”

He opened the box and put it before Beratinsky.  Beratinsky took out one of the papers, opened it, glanced at it, crumpled it up, and threw it into the fire.

“It isn’t I, at all events,” he said.

It was Reitzei next.  When he glanced at the paper he had drawn, he crushed it together with an oath, and dashed it on the floor.

“Of course, of course,” he exclaimed, “just when I was eager for a bit of active service.  So it is you, Brother Lind, or our friend Brand who is to settle the business of the Starving Cardinal.”

Calmly, almost as a matter of course, Lind handed the box to George Brand; and he, being a proud man, and in the presence of foreigners, was resolved to show no sign of emotion whatever.  When he took out the paper and opened it, and saw his fate there in the red cross, he laid it on the table before him without a word.  Then he shut his hand on Natalie’s ring.

“Well,” said Lind, rather sadly, as he took out the remaining paper without looking at it, and threw aside the box, “I almost regret it, as between you and me.  I have less of life to look forward to.”

“I would like to ask one question,” said Brand, rising:  he was perfectly firm.

“Yes?”

“The orders of the Council must be obeyed.  I only wish to know whether—­when—­when this thing comes to be done—­I must declare my own name?”