"Do you not think, my lord, this is very dangerous," said one; "do you remember he is the prefect?" "He himself decided yesterday at this very hour, that no rank can shield a murderer from death," replied Ramiro d'Orco. "He made no defence," said another, "but denied the competence of your court, declared the charge a lie, and appealed to the Pope and the King of France." "He himself pronounced my court competent to all high justice, yesterday," said Ramiro, drily. "Let him appeal. When his head is off, they cannot put it on again. No more of this. He dies, if I live." A short pause ensued, and then a man was seen running rapidly up the street which led toward the south gate. "Who is this?" asked Ramiro d'Orco. "They have not called noon from the belfry yet, have they?" "No, my lord," answered a young priest; "it wants half an hour of noon. But they have taken the prisoner down to the gate," he added, well comprehending what was going on in the heart of his lord. "I saw them pass as I came up a minute ago. But what has this fellow got in his arms?" "He is one of the guards from the gates," said another; "and, by my life, I think they must have anticipated the hour, for that is a man's head he is carrying." "No great evil," murmured Ramiro d'Orco; but a moment after a soldier reached the spot where they stood, and laid a bloody head at Ramiro's feet. All, however, remarked that the hair was somewhat grey, and the crown shaved. "A pennon of horse from his Highness the Duke of Valentinois is at the gate, my lord, seeking admission," said the messenger, almost breathless. "We did not admit them, as your lordship had ordered the gates not to be opened; but the leader threw this head in through the wicket, saying that the duke had sent it to you for the love he bears you. It is Friar Peter's head, my lord; do you not see? and the officer says he confessed last night having poisoned the Countess Visconti. What are we to do?" A murmur of horror ran through the little crowd around, and a look of relief and satisfaction at the timely intervention spread over almost every countenance except that of Ramiro d'Orco, whose brow had gathered into a deeper frown than ever. "What are we to do with the lord prefect?" asked the man again. "Hence, meddling fool!" exclaimed Ramiro d'Orco, stamping his foot upon the ground. "Strike off his head! The sentence of my court shall not be reversed. Strike off his head, I say! Wait no longer--'twill be noon ere you reach the gate again. Away! Then open the gates. But mark me, no delay, as you value your own life! Go fast, sirrah! Have your feet no strength?" The soldier ran down the street in haste, and Ramiro turned his eyes from the pained and anxious countenances around him; but it was only to meet a sight that affected him still more. "Oh! I would have been spared this!" he cried, as Leonora rushed toward him and cast herself at his feet.