I had spoken the truth, and her believed because she had lied.  But when she was allowed, as a grace, to bid me goodbye, and came to me and put her arms round my neck and kissed my cheeks, crying aloud, “Farewell, thou dear companion of my shame!  Do well, fulfil the pious purposes of these fathers; be sure of me, sure of thyself!” and when I was about to reprove her smartly for her hypocrisy, she quickly whispered in my ear, “Did you read my falsehood?  I am to be put where Aurelia will surely come.  Courage—­I will find her—­trust your Virginia”—­and filled me with confusion.  I pressed her hands—­the true friend that she was; for a moment she clung to me with passion.  “Forget me not, my lord—­pray for me—­let me see you again!” Such were her sobbed and broken prayers—­cut short by her unjust judges.

CHAPTER XX

SURPRISING CHANGE IN MY FORTUNES

Father Carnesecchi, of the Society of Jesus, who had charge of the penitents in the college of his Order, and to whom I was formally handed over by my indurate captor, was a member of an old family of Fiesole long settled in Florence, a thin, threadbare, humble old man, who kept his eyes fixed to the earth—­sharply piercing, intelligent eyes as they could be—­and did his best to keep his lips from speaking.  He had a trick of pinching the lower of them, in the hope, I suppose, that the difficulty of using the upper one alone would hold him silent.  But it did not.  He talked to himself continually, the habit was inveterate, and as he never let go of his lower lip it was very difficult to catch what he said.  He was a tall man, but stooped at the shoulders, threw his head forward like a long-necked bird, and nodded as he walked.  Beside my Dominican monolith he looked, what he was far from being, abject and poor-witted.  I thought that he bent his head, as if it weighed down to the earth under the pitiless blows rained upon it by the inquisitor, as without gesture or modulation of the voice, this monstrous man unwound his tale of my iniquities, which he had taken the trouble to spin, like a cocoon, all about my poor person.  If he had twisted a halter of it to hang me with, I suspect that he had done what he truly desired.

Father Carnesecchi listened to it all in the dejected, musing pose which I have described, words of pity incessantly escaping from his partly imprisoned mouth:  “Dio mio!” “Dio buono!” “Che peccato!” and the like, with fine shades of difference in expression according to the dark, the denser dark, the lurid flashes of the Dominican’s chiaroscuro.  This hireling shepherd piled up a hideous indictment, made up, as the reader will perceive, out of his own wicked imagination.  I was a runaway from the Venetian galleys, an actor of execrable life.  I had seduced a Sienese nun in Padua, and brought her with me into Tuscany to sow contempt of the sacraments, and rebellion against the reigning house.  I had openly advocated the worship