Other men, perhaps, standing there upon the threshold of so daring an
emprise, would have known some temptation of fear or hesitation in
such a fateful moment; but the great Capuchin friar neither paused nor
hesitated. That strange confidence in his own mission, his belief
that God had called him to the protection of Venice, perchance even a
personal conceit in his own skill as a swordsman, sent him hurrying to
the work. It was a draught of life to him to see men tremble at his
word; the knowledge which treachery poured into his ear was a study
finer than that of all the manuscripts in all the libraries of Italy.
And he knew that he was going to the Palazzo Pisani to humble one of
the greatest in the city--to bring the sons of Princes on their knees
before him.
There were many lights in the upper stories of the great house, but
the ground floor, with its barred windows and cell-like chambers, was
unlighted. The priest saw horrid faces grinning through the bars; the
faces of fugitives, fleeing the justice of Venice, outcasts of the
city, murderers. But these outcasts, in their turn, were silent when
they saw who came to the house, and they spoke of the strange guest in
muted exclamations of surprise and wonder.
"Blood of Paul! do you see that? It is the Capuchin himself and alone.
Surely there will be work to do anon."
"Ay, but does he come alone? Saint John! I would sooner slit a hundred
throats than have his shadow fall on me. Was it not he that hanged
Orso and the twelve! A curse upon the day he came to Venice.
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