He had other things upon his mind too. Filippo—old days—old triumphs. The promise that had been made him, that if he could but extinguish the Visconti for ever, his old estates were to be given back to him, besides new ones here in Venice. It had even been hinted, and hinted strongly, that the only obstacle to his becoming Duke of Milan himself was the man who called himself the Duke—Filippo Visconti. There seemed to be no bar to his advancement to any position he might choose—he, the son of a peasant, picked up at dusk by a wandering trooper in Savoy! Dusk! It was getting towards dark now! He stirred in his chair and looked about him. The place seemed less crowded than it had been when he had last observed it, and thinking that the moment had arrived when he could, at last, fling aside the world and return to his family, he rose to depart. What were those dark shapes hovering near his chair? Those were no Senators! He peered at them as he passed; but they paid him no attention, and he moved on towards the door. Instantly he felt himself seized from behind, and the dark shapes materialized into Sbirri—soldier police—as he struck out right and left, bellowing and roaring in his fury. But he was only one, and there were twenty or thirty of them, and he was chained hand and foot before he had recovered from his first amazement. The place was deserted now, save for them, and in the gloom he was hurried along, pushed and hustled down, down, until a door creaked open and he was flung into a cell, pitch-black and damp. The door slammed to behind him, and his little part in the world was played. The next day he was “put to the question,” but no records remain—none being kept—of what passed in the little cell during the dread ordeal; and twenty days later, gagged and chained, he was led out to the piazza, and there, between the pillars, beheaded. His grave is in the great Church of St. Francis, in Milan, beside his wife. While we are still in the North, the story of the Patron of Pisa, St. Raniero, may interest my readers. He was a Scacciari, born in Pisa about the year 1100, and grew up with the other noble children of the place, cheerful and pleasure-loving as were they—and as, it may be noticed in passing, were several of the greatest Saints in the Calendar. His conversion came about through a holy man, whose name has not survived. Raniero, one day, was playing and dancing with some damsels in the shade of a great tree, outside the city, when he noticed a man standing near who seemed to be studying him intently; after a while, he laid his lyre down on the grass and returned the gaze, with the intention of bringing home to the stranger the annoyance which the look was causing him. But the stranger continued to stare, and presently the boy arose to approach him.