“Signor Meschini!”

He shrieked aloud with fear, but he was paralysed in every limb.  A moment later a terrible crash drowned his cries.  San Giacinto, on hearing his agonised scream, had feared some accident.  He drew back a step and then, with a spring, threw his colossal strength against the line where the leaves of the door joined.  The lock broke in its sockets, the panels cracked under the tremendous pressure, and the door flew wide open.  In a moment San Giacinto was standing over the librarian, trying to drag him back from the table and out of his seat.  He thought the man was in a fit.  In reality he was insane with terror.

“An easy death, for the love of heaven!” moaned the wretch, twisting himself under the iron hands that held him by the shoulders.  “For God’s sake!  I will tell you all—­do not torture me—­oh! oh!—­only let it be easy—­and quick—­yes, I tell you—­I killed the prince—­oh, mercy, mercy, for Christ’s sake!”

San Giacinto’s grip tightened, and his face grew livid.  He lifted Meschini bodily from the chair and set him against the table, holding him up at arm’s length, his deep eyes blazing with a rage that would soon be uncontrollable.  Meschini’s naturally strong constitution did not afford him the relief of fainting.

“You killed him—­why?” asked San Giacinto through his teeth, scarcely able to speak.

“For you, for you—­oh, have mercy—­do not—­”

“Silence!” cried the giant in a voice that shook the vault of the hall.  “Answer me or I will tear your head from your body with my hands!  Why do you say you killed him for me?”

Meschini trembled all over, and then his contorted face grew almost calm.  He had reached that stage which may be called the somnambulism of fear.  The perspiration covered his skin in an instant, and his voice sank to a distinct whisper.

“He made me forge the deeds, and would not pay me for them.  Then I killed him.”

“What deeds?”

“The deeds that have made you Prince Saracinesca.  If you do not believe me, go to my room, the originals are in the cupboard.  The key is here, in my right-hand pocket.”

He could not move to get it, for San Giacinto held him fast, and watched every attempt he made at a movement.  His own face was deathly pale, and his white lips were compressed together.

“You forged them altogether, and the originals are untouched?” he asked, his grasp tightening unconsciously till Meschini yelled with pain.

“Yes!” he cried.  “Oh, do not hurt me—­an easy death—­”

“Come with me,” said San Giacinto, leaving his arms and taking him by the collar.  Then he dragged and pushed him towards the splintered door of the passage.  At the threshold, Meschini writhed and tried to draw back, but he could no more have escaped from those hands that held him than a lamb can loosen the talons of an eagle when they are buried deep in the flesh.