’My part!’ He almost screamed it at last. ’Was death my part?’ He writhed and snuffled. ’I tell thee, I’ve but now left them, on pretence of going before to the church. Shall I be there? God’s death! Let but this stroke win through and gain the people, and my life’s not worth a stinking sprat.’ She sank back with a sigh. ’Better, in that case, to have joined thy friends at San Stefano.’ The rogue, staring at her a moment, uttered a mortal cry:— ’Thou say’st it—_thou?_—Judas?—Who made me so?—Show me my thirty pieces—Judas? Ay; and what for wages?—Thy tool and catspaw—I see it all at last—thine and Ludovic’s—bled, and my carcass thrown to swine!—Judas? Why, I might have been Judas to some purpose with the Duke—a made man by now. And all for thee foregone; and in the end by thee betrayed. I asked nothing—gave all for nothing—ass—goose—cried quack and quack, as told—decoy to these fine fowl, and, being used, my neck wrung with the rest. Now——’ She put up a hand peremptorily. The fury simmered down on his lips. ’You presume, fellow,’ she said. ’_I_ betray _thee_?’ She raised her brows, amazed. Too stupendous an instance of condescension, indeed. He slunk down on his knees before her, cringing and praying. ’No, Madonna, no! I spake out of my great madness.’ ’Answer me,’ she said disdainfully, ’out of thy little reason. What wouldst thou of me?’ He lifted his shaking hands. ’Sanctuary, sanctuary. Let me hide here.’ He crawled to her, pawing like a beaten dog. ’Sanctuary,’ he reiterated brokenly. ’You owe it me—that at least. I’ve bided, bided—and ye made no sign—yielded all for guerdon of a sweet word, the whiles I thought thyself and Ludovic were stalking that conspiracy to cut it off betimes. God’s death! Not you. And now I know the reason. Now comes the reckoning, and I’m left to face it as I will. God’s death!’ His panic mastered him again. ’What of my substance have I changed for nothing! There was Bona’s ring—I might have lived ten year on’t. And I parted with it—for what? O, you’re a serpent, mistress! You worm your way—and get it too. What! Bona may bide a little, and Simonetta? They’re but the bleeding trunk. The head’s lopped while I talk.’ His voice rose to a screech—broke—and he grovelled before her. ’Mercy, Madonna. Spare me to be thy slave. All comes thy way—love, and revenge, and power. The boy’s dead—the Duke’s to die——’ He had roused her at last, and in a flash. She sprang to her feet, white, hardly breathing. ’The boy?’ she hissed; ’what boy?’ He whimpered, sprawling:— ’God a’ mercy! Lady, lady! the boy, the very boy you sped the ring to kill.’ ’Dead!’ she whispered. ’Ay,’ he snivelled from the ground; ’what would you? dead as last Childermas—starved to death, in the "Hermit’s Cell" they call it, by the Duke’s orders.’ Her fingers battled softly with her throat. ’Dead!’ she said again. ’Narcisso, good Narcisso, who hath gulled thee with this lie?’