“Where shall I find me a priest?” he grumbled.  “Think you the Citadel of Cesena is a monastery?  I will wait while you make an act of contrition for your sins.  It is all the shrift I can afford you.  And get it done, for it is time I was abed.  You shall have five minutes in which to clear your soul.”

By this it seemed to me—­as it may well seem to you—­that matters were but little mended, and instead of employing the respite he accorded me in the pious collecting of thoughts which he enjoined, I sat up—­very sore from my descent of the stairs—­and employed those precious moments in putting forward arguments to turn him from, his murderous purpose.

“I have lived too ungodly a life,” I protested, “to be able to squeeze into Paradise through so narrow a tate.  As you would hope for your own ultimate salvation, Excellency, I do beseech you not to imperil mine.”

This disposed him, at least, to listen to me, and proceeded to assure him of the harmless nature of my visit to the hall in quest of wine to quench my thirst.  I was running the grave risk of dying with lies on my lips, but I was too desperate to give the matter thought just then.  His mood seemed to relent; the delay, perhaps, had calmed his first access of passion, and he was grown more reasonable.  But when Ramiro cooled he was, perhaps, more malignant than ever, for it meant a return to natural condition, and Ramiro’s natural condition was one of cruelty unsurpassed.

“It may be as you say,” he answered me at last, sheathing his dagger, “and at least you have my word that I will not slay you without first assuring myself that you have lied.  For to-night you shall remain in durance.  To-morrow we will apply the question to you.”

The hope that had been reviving in my breast fell dead once more, and I turned cold at that threat.  And yet, between now and to-morrow, much might betide, and I had cause for thankfulness, perhaps, for this respite.  Thus I sought to cheer myself.  But I fear I failed.  To-morrow he would torture me, not so much to ascertain whether I had spoken truly, but because to his diseased mind it afforded diversion to witness a man’s anguish.  No doubt it was that had urged him now to spare my life and accord me this merciless piece of mercy.

In a loud voice he called the sentry who was pacing below; and in a moment the man appeared in answer to that summons.

“You will take this knave to the chamber set apart for him up there, and you will leave him secure under lock and bar, bringing me the key of his door.”

The fellow informed himself which was the chamber, then turning to me he curtly bade me go with him.  Thus was I haled back to my room, with the promise of horrors on the morrow, but with the night before me in which to scheme and pray for some miracle that might yet save me.  But the days of miracles were long past.  I lay on my bed and deplored with many a sigh that bitter fact.  And if aught