His heart sank within him.  He had looked forward to keeping the priest’s cousin for a year or two in gaol, previous to his trial.  That would have to be altered.  If Don Giustino came, the proceedings must be fixed for next morning—­it was the merest act of courtesy towards a man of his standing, a man whom one must conciliate at any cost.  He blamed himself for arresting that young idiot.  It threatened to bring him into undesired prominence.  Hitherto, by reason of his sheer insignificance, he had escaped the great Catholic deputy’s eye.  As Magistrate of Nepenthe, who cared what political or religious views he professed or in what manner he administered the law?  All this was now changed.  He was in the limelight.  It might end—­who knows where?  He had other enemies on the island beside the clericals; the arrival of Don Giustino might lead to a general revision of his judicial labours.  To-morrow perhaps he would have to confront the monster.  Don Giustino!  He knew him by reputation.  A Camorrista of the blackest dye.  He took no chances.  He never threatened; he performed.  Everybody knew that.  Signor Malipizzo did not like the prospect of losing his lucrative job.  Still less did he fancy the notion of receiving a charge of buck-shot in his liver, one evening from behind a wall.  That was Don Giustino’s cheerful way with people who annoyed him.  Those infernal clericals; their sanguinary, out-of-date methods!  Papacy and Camorra—­interconvertible terms—­who could plumb their depths?  The Masons were different.  They fought for the enlightenment of a people deluded by priestly snares and intimidated by the threats of assassins.  Don Giustino.  Holy Mother of God!  What would to-morrow bring?

Thinking thus, the judge eyed his victuals resentfully.  His appetite was gone—­he was beginning to feel sick.  Suddenly he pushed his plate away from him and hobbled out of the room, even forgetting to finish his wine.  He limped across the broiling market-place to give the necessary orders to his faithful and experienced clerk who, having likewise got wind of that telegram, was not unprepared for some change of mind on the part of his chief.

“The young idiot must come up for trial to-morrow, if the assassin arrives.”

“A sound suggestion,” the grey-haired one replied.  “It will take the wind out of his sails.  It will prove—­”

“Of course it will.  And now, Don Carlo, go and take your little nap.  I will stay here, to put my papers in order.  May your dreams be happy.”

The judge was dowered with extreme irascibility of temper, due to his chronic valetudinarian condition.  He, too—­within the limits of propriety—­was not going to take things lying down.  So much was certain.  At first he was too agitated to be able to collect his thoughts.  Gradually, as he moved about those rooms, calmness and confidence returned.  He was alone.  It was very warm and quiet here, amid these scenes of his many little triumphs.  The look of the archives, the familiar smell of the place, was reassuring.  He began to feel at ease once more.  Ideas came to him.