Temistocle glanced round the hall to see that they were alone. "The _forza_--the police," he whispered, "are in the house, Eccellenza. Here is the bag. Save yourself, for the love of heaven!" Del Ferice turned ghastly pale, and his face twitched nervously. "But--" he began, and then staggering back leaned against the wall. "Quick--fly!" urged Temistocle, shaking him roughly by the arm. "It is the Holy Office--you have time. I told them you would be back, and they are waiting quietly--they will wait all night. Here is your overcoat," he added, almost forcing his master into the garment--"and your hat--here! Come along, there is no time to lose. I will take you to a place where you can dress." Del Ferice submitted almost blindly. By especial good fortune the footman did not come out into the hall. Donna Tullia and her guests had finished dinner, and the servants had retired to theirs; indeed the footman had complained to Temistocle of being called away from his meal to open the door. The Neapolitan pushed his master out upon the stairs, urging him to use all speed. As the two men hurried along the dark street they conversed in low tones. Del Ferice was trembling in every joint. "But Donna Tullia," he almost whined. "I cannot leave her so--she must know--" "Save your own skin from the Holy Office, master," answered Temistocle, dragging him along as fast as he could. "I will go back and tell your lady, never fear. She will leave Rome to-morrow. Of course you will go to Naples. She will follow you. She will be there before you." Del Ferice mumbled an unintelligible answer. His teeth were chattering with cold and fear; but as he began to realise his extreme peril, terror lent wings to his heels, and he almost outstripped the nimble Temistocle in the race for safety. They reached at last the ruined part of the city near the Porta Maggiore, and in the shadow of the deep archway where the road branches to the right towards Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Temistocle halted. "Here," he said, shortly. Del Ferice said never a word, but began to undress himself in the dark. It was a gloomy and lowering night, the roads were muddy, and from time to time a few drops of cold rain fell silently, portending a coming storm. In a few moments the transformation was complete, and Del Ferice stood by his servant's side in the shabby brown cowl and rope-girdle of a Capuchin monk. "Now comes the hard part," said Temistocle, producing a razor and a pair of scissors from the bottom of the bag. Del Ferice had too often contemplated the possibility of flight to have omitted so important a detail. "You cannot see--you will cut my throat," he murmured plaintively.