’Dost not know? Then ’tis patent he is not all-confiding in his conscience. And yet thou shouldst know. ’Tis said thou lead’st him by the nose, as St. Mark the lion. Well, I am a sinner, properly persecuted; yet, to my erring perceptives, ’tis hard to reconcile thy saintship with thy subscribing to his sentence on a poor Franciscan monk, a crazy dreamer, who came to him with some story of the stars.’ ’O, I cry you mercy! I quote Messer Jacopo, who was present. "Deserving of the last chastisement"—were not those thy words? And Omniscience dethroned—a bewildered mortal like ourselves? Anyhow, he held thy saintship to justify his sentence on the monk.’ ’What sentence?’ ’Wilt thou come and see? I have my host’s pass.’ He staggered under the shock of a sudden leap and clutch. Young strenuous hands mauled his pretty doublet; sweet glaring eyes devoured his soul. ’I see it in thy face! O, inhuman dogs are ye all! Show me, take me to him!’ Tassino struggled feebly, and whimpered. ’Let go: I will take thee: I am not to blame.’ Shaking, but exultant in his evil little heart, he broke loose and led the way to a remote angle of the battlements, where the trunk of a great tower, like the drum of a hinge, connected the northern and eastern curtains. This was that same massy pile in whose bowels was situate the dreadful oubliette known as the ’Hermit’s Cell’: a grim, ironic title signifying deadness to the world, living entombment, utter abandonment and self-obliteration. It was delved fathoms deep; quarried out of the bed-rock; walled in further by a mountain of masonry. Tyranny sees an Enceladus in the least of its victims. On so exaggerated a scale of fear must the sum of its deeds be calculated. Here the Provost-Marshal had his impregnable quarters. Looking down, one might see the huge blank bulge of the tower enter the pavement below unpierced but by an occasional loop or eyelet hole. Its only entrance, indeed, was from the rampart-walk; its direct approach by way of the flying stair-way, up which Bembo had seen the monk disappear. His heart burned in his breast as he thought of him. There was a fury in his blood, a sickness in his throat. A sentry, lounging by the door, offered, as if by preconcert with Tassino, no bar to his entrance. But, when Cicada would have followed, he stayed him. ’Back, Fool!’ he said shortly, opposing his halberd. Cicada struggled a moment, and desisted. ’A murrain on thy tongue,’ snapped he, ’that calls me one!’ The sentry laughed, and, having gained his point, produced a flask leisurely from his belt. ’What! art thou not a fool?’ said he, unstoppering it, and preparing to drink. ’Understand, I have forsworn all liquor,’ said Cicada, with a wry twinkle. ’So art thou certainly a fool,’ said the sentry, eye and body guarding the doorway, as he raised the horn.