"
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 canal, 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 anticipation was cut short abruptly by the total
disappearance of the man whose death was a preliminary to the wage he
anticipated 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.
Pages:
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306