“You are being foully tricked, fair maid; the woman, even, is deceiving you.  This fellow is a base villain!”

And, releasing the arm which Castor was desperately but vainly trying to free from his clutch, he snatched off the false beard.

Agatha, who had also been endeavoring to escape from his grasp, gave a shriek of terror and indignation.  The unmasked rogue, with a swift movement, snatched the hood of the caracalla off Alexander’s head, flew at his throat with the fury and agility of a panther, and with much presence of mind called for help.  And Castor was strong too while Alexander tried to keep him off with his right hand, holding on to Agatha with his left, the shouts of the deaconess and her accomplice soon collected a crowd.  They were instantly surrounded by an inquisitive mob, laughing or scolding the combatants, and urging them to fight or beseeching them to separate.  But just as the artist had succeeded in twisting his opponent’s wrist so effectually as to bring him to his knees, a loud voice of malignant triumph, just behind him, exclaimed: 

“Now we have snared our scoffer!  The fox should not stop to kill the hare when the hunters are at his heels!”

“Zminis!” gasped Alexander.  He understood in a flash that life and liberty were at stake.

Like a stag hemmed in by dogs, he turned his head to this side and that, seeking a way of escape; and when he looked again where his antagonist had stood, the spot was clear; the nimble rascal had taken to his heels and vanished among the throng.  But a pair of eyes met the painter’s gaze, which at once restored him to self-possession, and reminded him that he must collect his wits and presence of mind.  They were those of his sister Melissa, who, as she made her way onward with her companion, had recognized her brother’s voice.  In spite of the old woman’s earnest advice not to mix in the crowd, she had pushed her way through, and, as the men-at-arms dispersed the mob, she came nearer to her favorite but too reckless brother.

Alexander still held Agatha’s hand.  The poor girl herself, trembling with terror, did not know what had befallen her.  Her venerable escort was a young man—­a liar.  What was she to think of the deaconess, who was his confederate; what of this handsome youth who had unmasked the deceiver, and saved her perhaps from some fearful fate?

As in a thunder-storm flash follows flash, so, in this dreadful night, one horror had followed another, to bewilder the brain of a maiden who had always lived a quiet life among good and quiet men and women.  And now the guardians of the peace had laid hands on the man who had so bravely taken her part, and whose bright eyes had looked into her own with such truth and devotion.  He was to be dragged to prison; so he, too, no doubt, was a criminal.  At this thought she tried to release her hand, but he would not let it go; for the deaconess had come close to Agatha, and, in a tone of sanctimonious wrath, desired her to quit this scene.