’Not from this man,’ he protested, whimpering and writhing; ’Lord, not from this man—I know him better than Thou—a recusant, a sorcerer! Be not deceived because of his calling. To curse Thine anointed! kill him, Lord—kill the blasphemer—I hold him ready to Thy hand! Good sweet St. Francis, I but weed thy pastures—a wicked false brother, tainting the fold. How shall love prevail, this poison at its root?—Poison! O my God, to be stricken for evermore! life’s fruit to change to choking ashes in my mouth! It cannot be—I, Galeazzo the Duke—yet I taunted him with visions: what if I have caught the infection of mine own imagination—too fearful, spare me this once. Lord God, consider—as I put it to Thee—now—like this—listen. To starve with him should be but a fast enlarged. What then? Some, honest ascetics, no Conventuals, so push abstinence to ecstasy as that they may cross the lines of death in a dream, and wake without a pang to heaven gained. If he does not, should he suffer, he is properly condemned for a gross pampered brother, false to his vows, unworthy Thine advocacy. Now, call the test a fair one. Chain back this dog that ravens to tear me. How, so stricken, made corrupt, could I work Thy will but through corruption? Hush! Thou mean’st it not—only as a jest? Give me some sign, then. Ah! Thou laugh’st—very quietly, but I hear Thee. Canst not deceive Galeazzo—ha-ha! between me and You, Lord, between me and You! Silence, thou dog monk! What dost thou here? Escaped! by God, get back—the first word was mine—thou art too late. What! damnation seize thee! Lord! he scorns Thy judgment—catch him, hold him—he is there by the door!’ He sprang to his feet, glaring and gesticulating. ’Galeazzo!’ exclaimed Bembo. The boy had mounted to the closet unheard. It was his privilege to come unannounced. He stood a moment regarding the madman in amazement and pity, then hurried softly to his side. ’What is it? The face again?’ His tone, his entreaty, dispelled the other’s delirium. The tyrant gazed at him a minute, slow recognition dawning in his eyes; then, of a sudden, broke into a thick fast flurry of sobs, and cast himself upon his shoulder. ’My saint,’ he wept adoringly—’my Conscience, my little angel! and I had thought thee—nay, but the sign for which I prayed art thou given.’ His emotion gushed inwardly, filling all his channels to gasping. Presently he looked up, with a passionate murmur and caress. ’Love, with thy red lips like a girl’s! Would that my own were worthy to marry with them.’ Bembo withdrew a little:— ’What wild words are these? Yet, peradventure, the giddy babble of a conqueror. O Galeazzo! hast triumphed o’er thyself indeed—casting that old familiar? chasing him hereout? Why, then, I whom thou hast appointed to be thy conscience, interpreting thy rule through truth and love, am the more emboldened to beseech the favour for which I came.’