“Who wrote your letter?” I asked him, and he told me, “One who knows.  Miriam the Jewess.”

I am to confess that he deceived me again.  I was fool enough to believe that he could explain to me the guilty history of these two persons behind me—­these two and their child.  We believe what we desire to believe, whether it be of good or evil report.  I bade him give me his letter; he dismounted and came towards me, fumbling in his cloak. “’Tis here,” he was muttering to himself.  “No, no, that is my pardon from his Holiness.  Ah, what have we here?  Nay, ’tis my certificate of communion.  How, how?  Have I lost it?” Grumbling and mumbling, grating his loose tooth, he was close upon me, his hand deep in his cloak.  “Ha, ha!” he suddenly cried, “now I have it!” and whipped out his hand.  Belviso shrieked my name aloud, “Francis, my lord and king!” and flung himself upon my breast.  There was a shocking report of a pistol, discharged close at hand.  Belviso shuddered and fell limp—­a dead weight.  I raised my arm, levelled, and shot Palamone through the head.

We picked up the lifeless form of that lad whom I had once loved for his love of me and laid him by the fire.  Virginia knelt beside him, pale and tearless; pale, stern and tearless also I stood above him, my weapon still reeking in my hand.  “Woman,” said I hoarsely, “would that I had fired that shot.  Do you dare to say that he has not got his deserts?”

She did not answer me; she was busy with the dead.  She opened his jacket and vest and put her hand below his shirt to feel if his heart yet fluttered.  Then she lifted to me a stern pure face.  “His deserts, my lord, say you?  Come, kneel you by me, and see whether he have them or no.”

Some impulse, I know not what, made me obey.  I kneeled down by Virginia.  She opened reverently the clothing of Belviso, laid back the vest, laid back the cotton shirt.  Wonder, terror, a flood of shame came scalding into my eyes.  I had looked upon, but now could not see, the young breasts of a girl.  My proof had turned to my reproof.  I was humbled to the dust.  “Poor child,” said Virginia very softly, “poor sinner, who died to save him that had once saved thee, I pray to God that thou knowest now how innocently he did thee this wrong.”  She stooped and kissed the cold lips, but I fell upon the cold bosom and wept bitterly.

She let me sob my full.  Not until I was calmer did the noble girl touch me upon the shoulder and call me by my name.  “Francis,” she said, “do not reproach yourself any more.  This poor soul has done what she must in any case have done.  Her heart was yours, and yours, she knew, could never have been given her.  She was loyal to you through all and deceived you through loyalty.  She is repaid in the only coin she could have asked.  God have her soul.” [Footnote:  Belviso’s tragic masquerade was not at all uncommon in Italy at the time of which I write.  If a girl were desirous of becoming a comedian she must, unless