Such bitterness, such scorn, such loathing were in his accents, that even the callous being he addressed was stung, and made a feeble gesture of protest.

“You judge me harshly,” he began—­

Gherardi laughed.

“Judge you!  Not I!  No judgment is wanted.  I read you like a book through and through,—­a book that should be set on Nature’s Index Expurgatorius, as unfit to meet the eyes of the faithful!  You are a low creature, Florian Varillo,—­and unscrupulous as I am myself, I despise you for meanness greater than even I am capable of!  But you are a convenient tool, ready to hand, and I use you for the Church’s service!  If you were to refuse to do as I bid you, I would brand you through the world as the murderer you are!  So realize to the full how thoroughly I have you in my power.  Now understand me,—­you must leave this place to-morrow.  I will send my carriage for you, and you shall come at once to me, to me in Rome as my guest,—­my honoured guest!” And he emphasized the word sarcastically.  “You are weak and ill yet, they tell me here,—­so much the better for you.  It will make you all the more interesting!  You will find it easier to play the part of injured innocence!  Do you understand?”

“I understand,” answered Varillo with a faint shudder, for the strong and relentless personality of Gherardi overpowered him with a sense of terror which he could not wholly control.

“Good!  Then we will say no more.  Brief words are best on such burning matters.  To-morrow at six in the afternoon I will send for you.  Be ready!  Till then—­try to rest—­try to sleep without dreaming of a scaffold!”

He folded his mantle around him again and prepared to depart.

“Sleep,” he repeated.  “Sleep with a cold heart and quiet mind!  Think that it is only a woman’s name—­a woman’s work—­a woman’s honour, that stand in your way,—­and congratulate yourself with the knowledge that the Church and her Divine authority will help you to remove all three!  Farewell!”

He turned, and unlocked the door of the cell.  As he threw it open, he was confronted by the monk Ambrosio, who was outside on the very threshold.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded suspiciously.  “I had a permit from the Superior to speak to your charge alone.”

“And were you not alone?” returned Ambrosio smiling.  “I was not with you!  I was here as sentinel, to prevent anyone disturbing you.  Poor Ambrosio—­mad Ambrosio!  He is no good at all except to guard the dead!”

Gherardi looked at him scrutinizingly, and noted the lack-lustre eyes, the helpless childish expression, of the half-young, half-old face confronting his own.

“Guard the dead as much as you please,” he said harshly.  “But take heed how you spy on the living!  Be careful of the sick man lying yonder—­we want him back with us in Rome to-morrow.”

Ambrosio nodded.

“Back in Rome—­good—­good!” he said.  “Then he is living after all!  I thought he was dead in his sins as I am,—­but you tell me he lives, and will go back to Rome!—­Oh yes—­I will take care of him—­good care!—­do not fear!  I know how to guard him so that he shall not escape you!”