“Poor Meschini!” he thought.  “He has lost a friend.  I daresay he is more genuinely sorry than all the family put together, poor fellow!”

Arnoldo Meschini, kneeling before the body of the man he had murdered, with a brandy bottle in the pocket of his long coat, would have come to an evil end if the giant had guessed the truth.  But he looked what he was supposed to be, the humble, ill-paid, half-starved librarian, mourning the master he had faithfully served for thirty years.  He knelt a long time, his lips moving mechanically with the words of an oft-repeated prayer.  In reality he was afraid to rise from his knees alone, and was waiting until some of the others made the first move.  But the rows of lacqueys, doubtless believing that the amount of their future wages would largely depend upon the vigour of their present mourning, did not seem inclined to desist from their orisons.  To Meschini the time was interminable, and his courage was beginning to ooze away from him, as the sense of his position acquired a tormenting force.  He could have borne it well enough in a church, in the midst of a vast congregation, he could have fought off his horror even here for a few minutes, but to sustain such a part for a quarter of an hour seemed almost impossible.  He would have given his soul, which indeed was just then of but small value, to take a sip of courage from the bottle, and his clasped fingers twitched nervously, longing to find the way to his pocket.  He glanced along the line, measuring his position, to see whether there was a possibility of drinking without being observed, but he saw that it would be madness to think of it, and began repeating his prayer with redoubled energy, in the hope of distracting his mind.  Then a horrible delusion began to take possession of him; he fancied that the dead man was beginning to turn his head slowly, almost imperceptibly, towards him.  Those closed eyes would open and look him in the face, a supernatural voice would speak his name.  As on the previous afternoon the cold perspiration began to trickle from his brow.  He was on the point of crying aloud with terror, when the man next to him rose.  In an instant he was on his feet.  Both bent again, crossed themselves, and retired.  Meschini stumbled and caught at his companion’s arm, but succeeded in gaining the door.  As he passed out, his face was so discomposed that San Giacinto looked down upon him with increased compassion, then followed him a few steps and laid his hand on his shoulder.  The librarian started violently and stood still.

“He was a good friend to you, Signor Meschini,” said the big man kindly.  “But take heart, you shall not be forgotten.”

The dreaded moment had come, and it had been very terrible, but San Giacinto’s tone was reassuring.  He could not have suspected anything, though the servants said that he was an inscrutable man, profound in his thoughts and fearful in his anger.  He was the one of all the family whom Meschini most feared.