"Once before this I warned you that you were in my power for an indiscretion you had committed," he said, speaking in dry, clipped tones. "Then you heeded my warning. Yet it seems you had not learned your lesson, for now I find you committing such a black treason as might ruin the expedition we are embarked upon. Coming, as it doth, hard on the heels of the clamour but recently stilled, it is so peculiarly villainous that we may not pass it over, even if we would. All that remains for us is to decide how you shall die." He paused. "An I have my way," he went on, implacable, thin-lipped, his white features dominating the dim interior of the tent, "you will be hauled under the keel of one of my galleys, you and the miserable wretches who accompanied you." "With permission, Lord Doge." It was Matteo who spoke. Hugh was too stunned to make any answer. He was thinking of Edith, of Crowden Wood, of Prior Thomas, of Chesby Castle and the fair English countryside, just turning green under the persuasive breath of spring. "An it please Your Magnificence," Matteo pursued calmly, "I am not a clerk, and my word will not go far in this matter. But seeing that my head seems to be at stake, with that of my comrade and dear lord, Messer Hugh, I hope you will not take it ill if I say somewhat concerning this charge." "Speak on," said the Doge curtly. "Who makes the charge? Who presents the evidence?" "The scroll was picked up at the entrance of this pavilion by one of the varlets in attendance here." "Touching that point, Lord Doge, I can say that neither Messer Hugh nor I was present near this pavilion yesterday or during the night just passed." "True, mayhap," remarked a querulous voice. "But perchance a messenger was despatched with the scroll and dropped it." Hugh looked up in surprise. The speaker was Comnenus. Dandolo nodded his head. "The Cæsar speaks justly," he said. "It might have happened so. Is that all you have to say?" "Nay, Lord Doge. I have viewed this scroll--" Matteo drew the parchment from Hugh's limp fingers--"and whilst I cannot read it, still I know that 'tis not written as my Lord Hugh writes. Is it not so, Lord Marshal?" he appealed to Villehardouin. Villehardouin studied the parchment with wrinkled brows. "Ay," he exclaimed joyfully. "'Tis as Messer Matteo says. Messer Hugh writes in a fair enough hand, but large and round. This is writ small and sharp, so that I can make naught of the letters in it. But mayhap a clerk can testify to better advantage." Bishop Nevelon of Soissons, the most famous warrior-prelate of the host, came forward and took the parchment. "Ay," he agreed after a minute's examination, "this is writ in the form used by the clerks of South Europe and the East. It hath a likeness to Greek script, it is so sharp-drawn. But where is a sample of Messer Hugh's writing that we may compare the two?"