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 assassin 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.
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