Master Tales of Mystery Part 41

Fra Giovanni rose from his chair and put his hand gently upon the other's shoulder.

"Signer Falier," said he, "if I told you this woman's name here and now as you ask, the feast of Corpus Christi might find a new Doge in Venice."

"You say, Excellency--?"

"That the city is in danger as never she was before in her history."

"And your own life?"

"Shall be given for Venice if necessary. Listen to this: you seek to be of service to me. Have you any plan?"

"No plan but that which posts guards at your door and keeps you within these walls--"

"That the enemies of Venice may do their work. Is that your reason, Signor Falier?"

"I have no other reason, Excellency, but your own safety and that of the city."

"I am sure of it, Captain, and being sure I am putting my life in your hands to-night--"

"To-night; we are to follow you to the Merceria, then?"

"Not at all; say rather that you are to return to the palace and to keep these things so secret that even the Council has no word of them.

But, at ten o'clock, take twenty of your best men and let your boat lie in the shadow of the church of San Luca until I have need of you.

You understand, Captain Falier?"

Falier nodded his head and replied vaguely. Truth to tell, he understood very little beyond this--that the friar had been before him once more, and that he could but follow as a child trustingly. And the city was in danger! His heart beat quick when he heard the words.

"Excellency," he stammered, "the boat shall be there--at ten o'clock--in the shadow of the church of San Luca. But first--"

"No," said the priest, quickly, "we have done with our firstly--and your gondola waits, I think, signore!"

CHAPTER II

The bells of the Chapel of St. Mark were striking the hour of eight o'clock when, Fra Giovanni stepped from his gondola, and crossed the great square toward that labyrinth of narrow streets and winding alleys they call the Merceria.

The Piazza itself was then ablaze with the light of countless lamps; dainty lanterns, colored as the rainbow, swayed to the soft breeze between the arches of the colonnade. n.o.bles were seated at the doors of the splendid cafes; the music of stringed instruments mingled with the louder, sweeter music of the bells; women, whose jewels were as sprays of flame, many-hued and dazzling, hung timidly upon the arms of lovers; gallants swaggered in costly velvets and silks which were the spoil of the generous East; even ca.s.socked priests and monks in their sombre habits pa.s.sed to and fro amidst that glittering throng, come out to herald the glory of a summer's night.

And clear and round, lifting themselves up through the blue haze to the silent world of stars above, were the domes and cupolas of the great chapel itself--the chapel which, through seven centuries, had been the city's witness to the G.o.d who had made her great, and who would uphold her still before the nations.

The priest pa.s.sed through the crowd swiftly, seeming to look neither to the right nor to the left. The brown habit of the Capuchins was his dress, and his cowl was drawn so well over his head that only his eyes were visible--those eyes which stand out so strangely in the many portraits which are still the proud possession of Venice. Though he knew well that an a.s.sa.s.sin waited for him in the purlieus of the church of San Salvatore, his step was quick and brisk; he walked as a man who goes willingly to a rendezvous, and antic.i.p.ates its climax with pleasure. When he had left the great square with its blaze of lanterns and its babel of tongues, and had begun to thread the narrow streets by which he would reach the bridge of the Rialto, a smile played for a moment about his determined mouth, and he drew his capuce still closer over his ears.

"So it is Rocca whom they send--Rocca, the poltroon! Surely there is the hand of G.o.d in this."

He raised his eyes for a moment to the starlit heaven, and then continued his brisk walk. His way lay through winding alleys; over bridges so narrow that two men could not pa.s.s abreast; through pa.s.sages where rogues lurked, and repulsive faces were thrust grinning into his own. But he knew the city as one who had lived there all his life; and for the others, the thieves and sc.u.m of Venice, he had no thought. Not until he came out before the church of Santa Maria Formosa did he once halt or look behind him. The mystery of the night was a joy to him. Even in the shadow of the church, his rest was but for a moment; and, as he rested, the meaning smile hovered again upon his wan face.

"The play begins," he muttered, while he loosened slightly the girdle of his habit and thrust his right hand inside it; "the G.o.d of Venice give me courage."

A man was following him now--he was sure of it. He had seen him as he turned to cross the bridge which would set him on the way to the church of San Salvatore--a short, squat man, masked and dressed from head to foot in black. Quick as the movements of the fellow were, dexterous his dives into porches and the patches of shadow which the eaves cast, the priest's trained eye followed his every turn, numbered, as it were, the very steps he took. And the smile upon Fra Giovanni's face was fitful no more. He walked as a man who has a great jest for his company.

"Rocca the fool, and alone! They pay me a poor compliment, those new friends of mine; but we shall repay, and the debt will be heavy."

He withdrew his hand from his habit, where it had rested upon the hilt of a dagger, for he knew that he had no need of any weapon. His gait was quick and careless; he stopped often to peer into some windowless shop where a sickly lamp burned before the picture of a saint; and wares, which had not tempted a dead generation, appealed unavailingly to a living one. The idea that his very merriment might cost him his life never entered his head. He played with the a.s.sa.s.sin as a cat with a mouse, now tempting him to approach, now turning suddenly, and sending him helter-skelter into the door of a shop or the shadow of a bridge. He was sure of his man, and that certainty was a delight to him.

"If it had been any other but Rocca the clown!" he said to himself, his thoughts ever upon the jest; "surely we shall know what to say to him."

He had come almost to the church of San Salvatore by this time. His walk had carried him out to the bank of a narrow, winding ca.n.a.l, at whose quays once-splendid gondolas were rotting in neglect. It seemed to him that here was the place where his tactics might well be changed and the _role_ of the hunted put aside for that of the hunter. Quick to act, he stepped suddenly behind one of the great wooden piles driven into the quay for the warping of barges. The _bravo_, who did not perceive that he had been detected, and who could not account for the sudden disappearance of his prey, came straight on, his cloak wrapped about his face, his naked sword in his hand. The wage would be earned easily that night, he was telling himself. No one would miss a beggarly monk--and he, Rocca, must live. A single blow, struck to the right side of the back, and then--and then--

This pleasant antic.i.p.ation was cut short abruptly by the total disappearance of the man whose death was a preliminary to the wage he antic.i.p.ated so greedily. Mystified beyond measure, he let his cloak fall back again, and began to peer into the shadows as though some miracle had been wrought and the priest carried suddenly from earth to that heaven whither he had meant to send him so unceremoniously.

"Blood of Paul!" he exclaimed angrily, turning about and about again, "am I losing my eyes? A plague upon the place and the shadows."

He stamped his foot impotently, and was about to run back by the way he had come when a voice spoke in the shadows; and at the sound of the voice, the sword fell from the man's hand and he reeled back as from a blow.

"Rocca Zicani, the Prince is waiting for you."

The a.s.sa.s.sin staggered against the door of a house, and stood there as one paralyzed. He had heard those words once before in the dungeons of Naples. They had been spoken by the Inquisitors who came to Italy with one of the Spanish princes. Instantly he recalled the scene where first he had listened to them--the dungeon draped in black--the white-hot irons which had seared his flesh; the rack which had maimed his limbs, the masked men who had tortured him.

"Great G.o.d!" he moaned, "not that--not that--"

The priest stepped from the shadows and stood in a place where the feeble light of an oil lamp could fall upon his face. The laugh hovered still about his lips. He regarded the trembling man with a contempt he would not conceal.

"Upon my word, Signer Rocca," he exclaimed, "this is a poor welcome to an old friend."

The _bravo_, who had fallen on his knees, for he believed that a trick had again delivered him into the hands of his enemies, looked up at the words, and stared at the monk as at an apparition.

"Holy Virgin!" he cried, "it is the Prince of Iseo."

The priest continued in the jester's tone:

"As you say, old comrade, the Prince of Iseo. Glory to G.o.d for the good fortune which puts you in my path to-night! Oh, you are very glad to see me, Signor Rocca, I'll swear to that. What, the fellow whom my hands s.n.a.t.c.hed from the rack in the house of the Duke of Naples--has he no word for me? And he carries his naked sword in his hand; he has the face of a woman and his knees tremble. What means this?"

He had seemed to speak in jest, but while the cowed man was still kneeling before him, he, of a sudden, struck the sword aside, and, stooping, he gripped the _bravo_ by the throat and dragged him from the shelter of the porch to the water's edge. As iron were the relentless hands; the man's eyes started from his head, the very breath seemed to be crushed out of him in the grip of the terrible priest.

"Signor Rocca, what means this?" the friar repeated. "A naked sword in your hand and sweat upon your brow. Oh, oh! a tale, indeed! Shall I read it to you, or shall I raise my voice and fetch those who will read it for me--those who have the irons heated, and the boot so made for your leg that no last in Italy shall better it. Speak, rascal, shall I read you the tale?"

"Mercy, Prince, for the love of G.o.d!"

The priest released the pressure of his hands and let the other sink at his feet.

"Who sent you, rogue?" he asked. "Who pays your wage?"

"I dare not tell you, Excellency."

"Dare not! _you_ dare not--you, whom a word will put to torture greater than any you have dreamed of in your worst agonies; _you_ dare not."