The Saint’s steadfast eyes canvassed the speaker’s soul, as if in some shadowy suspicion of an integrity which they were being led, not for the first time, to probe. ’Why, Messer,’ said he, ’practicable in so far as, by the dear Christ’s influence, grace may come to make an angel even of our Duke.’ Montano tried to return his steady gaze, but failed meanly. ’With submission, Messer Bernardo,’ he sniggered, ’I can only follow, in my mind’s eye, one certain road to that great man’s apotheosis.’ Bembo was silent. ’’Tis the road,’ continued the other, ’taken before by the Emperor Nero.’ ’He stabbed himself, the most wretched pagan, in fear of a worser retribution than heaven’s,’ said Bembo. ’Alas! do you call that an apotheosis?’ ’There are gods and gods,’ said Montano,—’Hades and Olympus. Belike Nero was welcomed of his kind, as Galeazzo would be. I can scarce see in the Duke the raw material of your fashion of angel. There’s more of the harpy about him than the harp.’ It was a heavenly day. Bernardo, still a little hectic and languid from his fever, sat in the embrasure of a window which gave upon the back court of the smithy. A muffled tinkling of armourers’ hammers reached his ears pleasantly from the rear of neighbouring premises. There was a certain happy suggestiveness to him in the sound, evoked, as he hoped it might be, at his host Lupo’s instigation. For his endearing optimism had so wrought upon that stricken artificer, during the week he had dwelt in hiding with him, as to persuade the poor man to quit his self-despairing, and hire out his skill—not practically; that was no longer possible; but theoretically—to a deserving fellow-craftsman. Already the sense of touch was curiously refining in the sightless creature, and the glimmer of a new dawn of interest penetrating him. And he was at work again elsewhere. On the floor at Bembo’s feet squatted Cicada, acrid, speaking little, and spending his long intervals of silence in staring at the girl Lucia, who, crouching at a distance away by the fireless forge, in the gloom of the shuttered smithy, seemed given over to an eternal reverie of hate. She, alone of the household, had remained impervious to all the sweet influences of sorrow and pity. Her wrong was such as no angel could remedy. Cicada spoke now, with a scowl of significance for Montano:— ’Speak plain, master philosopher. Innuendo is the weapon of Fools, and wisdom shall prevail in candour. Thou canst not picture to thyself this evangelised Duke?’ Montano shot a lowering glance at him. ’No, I confess, master Patch,’ said he—’unless,’ he added grinning, ’by Nero’s road.’ ’Two whispers do not make one outspokenness,’ answered the Fool. ’Hast hinted Nero once, and once again, and still we lack the application. Nero was driven to the road, quotha; well, by whom?—one Galba, an my learning’s not a’rust. What then? Is Galba going to drive Galeazzo?’