Arnoldo Meschini was in the library, as San Giacinto had anticipated.  He was seated at his usual place at the upper end of the hall, surrounded by books and writing materials which he handled nervously without making any serious attempt to use them.  He had lost all power of concentrating his thoughts or of making any effort to work.  Fortunately for him no one had paid any attention to him during the past ten days.  His appearance was dishevelled and slovenly, and he was more bent than he had formerly been.  His eyes were bleared and glassy as he stared at the table before him, assuming a wild and startled expression when, looking up, he fancied he saw some horrible object gliding quickly across the sunny floor, or creeping up to him over the polished table.  All his former air of humility and shabby respectability was gone.  His disordered dress, his straggling grayish hair that hung from beneath the dirty black skullcap around his misshapen ears, his face, yellow in parts and irregularly flushed in others, as though it were beginning to be scorched from within, his unwashed hands, every detail of his appearance, in short, proclaimed his total degradation.  But hitherto no one had noticed him, for he had lived between his attic, the deserted library and the apothecary’s shop on the island of Saint Bartholomew.  His mind had almost ceased to act when he was awake, except in response to the fear which the smallest circumstances now caused him.  If he had dreams by night, he saw visions also in the day, and his visions generally took the shape of San Giacinto.  He had not really seen him since he had met him when the prince lay in state, but the fear of him was, if anything, greater than if he had met him daily.  The idea that the giant was lying in wait for him had become fixed, and yet he was powerless to fly.  His energy was all gone between his potations and the constant terror that paralysed him.

On that morning he had been as usual to the Ponte Quattro Capi and had returned with the means of sleep in his pocket.  He had no instinct left but to deaden his sensations with drink during the hours of light, while waiting for the time when he could lie down and yield to the more potent influence of the opium.  He had therefore come back as usual, and by force of habit had taken his place in the library, the fear of seeming to neglect his supposed duties forbidding him to spend all his time in his room.  As usual, too, he had locked the door of the passage to separate himself from his dread of a supernatural visitation.  He sat doubled together in his chair, his long arms lying out before him upon the books and papers.

All at once he started in his seat.  One, two, one two—­yes, there were footsteps in the corridor—­they were coming nearer and nearer—­heavy, like those of the dead prince—­but quicker, like those of San Giacinto—­closer, closer yet.  A hand turned the latch once, twice, then shook the lock roughly.  Meschini was helpless.  He could neither get upon his feet and escape by the other exit, nor find the way to the pocket that held his weapon.  Again the latch was turned and shaken, and then the deep voice he dreaded was heard calling to him.