Suddenly the sounds below died away and ceased. He listened an instant; then went down again, turning and turning in a nightmare of blind horror. The walls grew dank and viscous to his palm. A stumble, and all might end for him hideously. Then, at the same moment, weak light and a weaker cry greeted him. He descended, still without pause—and shot into the glowing mouth of a tiny tunnel, where were the figures he sought. They stood at a low grating in the wall, which was pierced into a subterranean chamber. The bars were thrown open, and through the aperture Tassino directed the light of a flaring torch he held upon a figure lying prostrate on the stones below. Cicada crept, and peered over his master’s shoulder. The thing on the floor was grotesque, unnatural—a human skeleton emitting noises, heaving in its midst. That great bulk had become in its shrinkage a monstrous travesty of life. But existence still preyed upon its indissoluble vestments of flesh. ’He clings to life, for a monk,’ whispered the Fool. With the sound of his voice, Bernardo was sprung into a Fury. He lashed upon Cicada, tooth and claw:— ’Thou knew’st, and hid it from me in parables!’ ’Inference, inference!’ cried the Fool. ’I would have spared thee.’ ’Spared _me_? Thus?’ ’Ah! thy shame through wicked sophistries! He was foredoomed. Had I interfered, I had been lying myself there now, and you a loving servant the less.’ Bembo flung his arms abroad, as if sweeping all away from him. ’Love! Let pass!’ he shrieked: ’Fiends are ye all, with whom to breathe is poison!’ and he broke by them, and went flying and crying up into the daylight. He ran, without pause, by the walls, down the notched stairway, across the ward, and came with flaming colour into the buttery. ’Give me wine and bread!’ he screamed of the steward there; and the man, in a flurry of wonder, obeyed him. Then away he raced again, his hands full, and never stopped until the sentry, a new one, at the tower door barred his progress. The way was private, quoth the man. He could let none past but by order. ’Of whom?’ panted Bembo. ’Why, the Provost-Marshal.’ Then the boy tried wheedling. ’Dear soldier: thou art well cared for. There is one within perishes for a little bread.’ But the man was adamant. ’Where, then, is the Provost-Marshal?’ cried the other in desperation. Within or without—the sentry professed not to know. In any case, it was death to him to leave his post. Bernardo put down his load on the battlements, and, turning, fled away again. *CHAPTER X* Bona sat amongst her maidens. They were all busy as spiders upon a loom of tapestry, spinning a symbolic web. The subject was as edifying as their talk over it was free. Their lips and fingers were perpetually at odds, weaving reputations and pulling them to pieces. Bona herself said little; but abstraction gave some indulgence to the smile with which she listened, or seemed to.