But, during the pontificate of the Lord Julius P.P. II (Giuliano della Rovere) the eternal enemy of the House of Borgia, (whose not mean portrait by Messer Rafaele Sanzio da Urbino may be seen at the National Gallery,) the captain Don Michelotto, who is supposed to have strangled the Prince of Bisceglia by order of Duke Cesare, was seized and put to the Question in the usual manner. It was attempted to find out, by means of this rigour, the truth about the various crimes which he was said to have committed for his master; and particularly the murder of Prince Don Alonso. But although he was in the hands of a ruthless despot, who, legally could have broiled him alive like a forger or could have broken with iron bars every bone of every limb of his body on the Wheel, with none to hinder, Don Michelotto soon was set at liberty as having given no evidence of guilt, either on his own part or of that of Duke Cesare. It will appear from this fairly convincing test that there is a strong reason for regarding the story of strangulation as a piece of fiction. As a last contribution to the theory, it is suggested that contortions caused by _tetanus_, which might have set in by reason of the poignard wounds, may have simulated, to the ignorant and casual observer, the appearance of strangulation. The bacillus of tetanus is of earth origin, and every one knows the vulgar method of wiping a dagger. Otherwise the strangulation theory may be dismissed. Of the stabbing on the steps of St. Peter’s there is no such room for doubt. The discrepancy between Cappello (edited by Sanuto, understood,) and Burchard, (a copy of him by an unknown hand, also understood,) as to the position of the wounds has no material significance. Head, arms, and thighs, says Cappello; head, right arm, and knee, says Burchard. It is quite clear that the unfortunate youth (he was just of the age of twenty-one years) wore beneath his doublet one of the fashionable mail-shirts of the day, strong enough to turn a tempered blade at closest quarters and yet so fine that it could be hidden in two hands; and which caused him to be wounded anywhere except in his handsome trunk. The number of wounds and their wide distribution speak of more than one occasion. The frightful loss of blood (the wound in the thigh), the delusions of Fifteenth Century chirurgeons, the elementary condition of the pharmacopœia, the time of year—Sol in Leone—when Rome fizzles in fevers and insanitary stenches, preclude possibility of recovery: and it is only reasonable to conceive that Prince Don Alonso died, after a month’s lingering weakness and fever, of the poignard wounds and the attentions of the leeches, unassisted by a problematic noose, or the compression of his windpipe by strong thumbs. Then who were the masked men with poignards, and who is responsible for them?