And to you, the Marquis of Cittadella, there is another message."
He turned to one of the three who had begun to rail at him, and raised
his hand as in warning. So great was the curiosity to hear his words
that the swords were lowered again, and again there could be heard the
ticking of a clock in the great room.
"For me--a message! Surely I am favored, signore."
"Of that you shall be the judge, since, at dawn to-morrow, your head
will lie on the marble slab between the columns of the Piazzetta."
They greeted him with shouts of ridicule.
"A prophet--a prophet!"
"A prophet indeed," he answered quietly, "who has yet a word to speak
to you, Andrea Foscari."
"To me!" exclaimed the man addressed, who was older than the others,
and who wore the stola of the nobility.
"Ay, to you, who are about to become a fugitive from the justice of
Venice. Midnight shall see you hunted in the hills, my lord; no house
shall dare to shelter you; no hand shall give you bread. When you
return to the city you would have betrayed, the very children shall
mock you for a beggar."
Foscari answered with an oath, and drew back. The third of the men, a
youth who wore a suit of white velvet, and whose vest was ablaze with
gold and jewels, now advanced jestingly.
"And for me, most excellent friar?"
"For you, Gian Mocenigo, a pardon in the name of that Prince of Venice
whose house you have dishonored."
Again they replied to him with angry gibes.
"A proof--a proof--we will put you to the proof, friar--here and now,
or, by God, a prophet shall pay with his life.
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