“Go on!” urged the strong man, in fierce tones.  “You came by this passage to kill him—­you know the way.”

With a sudden movement of his right hand he launched the howling wretch forward into the corridor.  All through the narrow way Meschini’s cries for mercy resounded, loud and piercing, but no one heard him.  The walls were thick and the distance from the inhabited rooms was great.  But at last the shrieks reached the study.

Saracinesca stood still in his walk.  Giovanni sprang to his feet.  The notaries sat in their places and trembled.  The noise came nearer and then the door flew open.  San Giacinto dragged the shapeless mass of humanity in and flung it half way across the room, so that it sank in a heap at the old prince’s feet.

“There is the witness to the deeds,” he cried savagely.  “He forged them, and he shall witness them in hell.  He killed his master in this very room, and here he shall tell the truth before he dies.  Confess, you dog!  And be quick about it, or I will help you.”

He stirred the grovelling creature with his foot.  Meschini only rolled from side to side and hid his face against the floor.  Then the gigantic hands seized him again and set him on his feet, and held him with his face to the eight men who had all risen and were standing together in wondering silence.

“Speak!” shouted San Giacinto in Meschini’s ear.  “You are not dead yet—­you have much to live through, I hope.”

Again that trembling passed over the unfortunate man’s limbs, and he grew quiet and submissive.  It was all as he had seen it in his wild dreams and visions, the secret chamber whence no sound could reach the outer world, the stern judges all in black, the cruel strength of San Giacinto ready to torture him.  The shadow of death rose in his eyes.

“Let me sit down,” he said in a broken voice.

San Giacinto led him to a chair in the midst of them all.  Then he stood before one of the doors, and motioned to his cousin to guard the other.  But Arnoldo Meschini had no hope of escape.  His hour was at hand, and he knew it.

“You forged the deeds which were presented as originals in the court.  Confess it to those gentlemen.”  It was San Giacinto who spoke.

“The prince made me do it,” answered Meschini in low tones.  “He promised me twenty thousand scudi for the work.”

“To be paid—­when?  Tell all.”

“To be paid in cash the day the verdict was given.”

“You came to get your money here?”

“I came here.  He denied having promised anything definite.  I grew angry.  I killed him.”  A violent shudder shook his frame from head to foot.

“You strangled him with a pocket handkerchief?”

“It was Donna Faustina’s?”

“The prince threw it on the ground after he had struck her.  I saw the quarrel.  I was waiting for my money.  I watched them through the door.”

“You know that you are to die.  Where are the deeds you stole when you forged the others?”