I saw that the three friends were greatly saddened by what I said, and the wise old man, quietly but sadly, told me that I should have my answer after dinner.

De la Haye dined with us, but all through the meal, which was a melancholy one, he spoke not a word.  His silence should have told me all, if I had not been under the influence of some malevolent genii who would not allow me to exercise my common sense:  as to the sorrow of my three friends, I put that down to their friendship for me.  My connection with these worthy men had always been the talk of the town, and as all were agreed that it could not be explained on natural grounds, it was deemed to be the effect of some sorcery exercised by me.  These three men were thoroughly religious and virtuous citizens; I was nothing if not irreligious, and Venice did not contain a greater libertine.  Virtue, it was said, may have compassion on vice, but cannot become its friend.

After dinner M. de Bragadin took me into his closet with his two friends, from whom he had no secrets.  He told me with wonderful calmness that instead of meditating vengeance on Messer-Grande I should be thinking of putting myself in a place of safety.  “The portmanteau,” said he, “was a mere pretext; it was you they wanted and thought to find.  Since your good genius has made them miss you, look out for yourself; perhaps by to-morrow it may be too late.  I have been a State Inquisitor for eight months, and I know the way in which the arrests ordered by the court are carried out.  They would not break open a door to look for a box of salt.  Indeed, it is possible that they knew you were out, and sought to warn you to escape in this manner.  Take my advice, my dear son, and set out directly for Fusina, and thence as quickly as you can make your way to Florence, where you can remain till I write to you that you may return with safety.  If you have no money I will give you a hundred sequins for present expenses.  Believe me that prudence bids you go.”

Blinded by my folly, I answered him that being guilty of nothing I had nothing to fear, and that consequently, although I knew his advice was good, I could not follow it.

“The high court,” said he, “may deem you guilty of crimes real or imaginary; but in any case it will give you no account of the accusations against you.  Ask your oracle if you shall follow my advice or not.”  I refused because I knew the folly of such a proceeding, but by way of excuse I said that I only consulted it when I was in doubt.  Finally, I reasoned that if I fled I should be shewing fear, and thus confessing my guilt, for an innocent man, feeling no remorse, cannot reasonably be afraid of anything.