“With Donna Faustina’s handkerchief,” suggested the cardinal.  “Perhaps you do not remember that it was lying on the floor and that you picked it up and knotted it—–­”

“Yes, yes!  Round his neck,” cried Gouache nervously.  “I remember.  But I saw red, everything swam, the details are gone.  Here I am—­ your Eminence’s prisoner—­I implore you to send the order at once!”

The cardinal had hitherto maintained a grave expression.  His features suddenly relaxed and he put out his hand.

“My dear Monsieur Gouache, I like you exceedingly,” he said.  “You are a man of heart.”

“I do not understand—–­” Anastase was very much bewildered, but he saw that his plan for freeing Faustina was on the point of failure.

“I appreciate your motives,” continued the statesman.  “You love the young lady to distraction, she is arrested on a capital charge, you conceive the idea of presenting yourself as the murderer in her place—­”

“But I assure your Eminence, I swear—­”

“No,” interrupted the other, raising his hand.  “Do not swear.  You are incapable of such a crime.  Besides, Donna Faustina is already at liberty, and the author of the deed has already confessed his guilt.”

Anastase staggered against the projecting shelf of the bookcase.  The blood rushed to his face and for a moment he was almost unconscious of where he was.  The cardinal’s voice recalled him to himself.

“If you doubt what I tell you, you need only go to the Palazzo Montevarchi and inquire.  Donna Faustina will return with the Princess Sant’ Ilario.  I am sorry that circumstances prevent me from showing you the man who has confessed the crime.  He is in my apartments at the present moment, separated from us only by two or three rooms.”

“His name, Eminence?” asked Gouache, whose whole nature seemed to have changed in a moment.

“Ah, his name must for the present remain a secret in my keeping, unless, indeed, you have reason to believe that some one else did the murder.  Have you no suspicions?  You know the family intimately, it seems.  You would probably have heard the matter mentioned, if the deceased prince had been concerned in any quarrel—­in any transaction which might have made him an object of hatred to any one we know.  Do you recall anything of the kind?  Sit down, Monsieur Gouache.  You are acquitted, you see.  Instead of being a murderer you are the good friend who once painted my portrait in this very room.  Do you remember our charming conversations about Christianity and the universal republic?”

“I shall always remember your Eminence’s kindness,” answered Gouache, seating himself and trying to speak as quietly as possible.  His nervous nature was very much unsettled by what had occurred.  He had come determined that Faustina should be liberated at any cost, overcome by the horror of her situation, ready to lay down his life for her in the sincerity of his devotion.  His conduct