“Ay, the King!” and a glance of supreme scorn swept over him from head to foot, as the monarch’s clear dark grey eyes flashed with the glitter of cold steel in the luminance of the torches which were carried by attendants behind him; “Monsignor Del Fortis! You stand convicted of the offence of unlawfully tampering with the conscience of a prisoner of State! We have heard your every word--and have obtained a bird’s-eye view of your policy!--so that,--if necessary,--we will Ourselves bear witness against you! For the present,--you will be detained in this fortress until our further pleasure!” For one moment Del Fortis appeared to be literally contorted in every muscle by his excess of rage. His features grew livid,--his eyes became almost blood-red, and his teeth met on his drawn-in under-lip in a smile of intense malignity. Baffled again!--and by this ‘king,’--the crowned Dummy,--who had cast aside all former precedent, and instead of amusing himself with card-playing and sensual intrigue, after the accepted fashion of most modern sovereigns, had presumed to interfere, not only with the Church, but with the Government, and now, as it seemed, had acted as a spy on the very secrets of a so-called prison ‘confession’! The utter impossibility of escaping from the net into which his own words had betrayed him, stood plainly before his mind and half-choked him with impotent fury,--till--all suddenly a thought crossed his brain like a flash of fire, and with a strong effort, he recovered his self-possession. Crossing his arms meekly on his breast, he bowed with a silent and profound affectation of humility, as one who is bent under the Royal displeasure, yet resigned to the Royal command,--then with a rapid movement he lifted the poison-phial he had held concealed, to his lips. His action was at once perceived. Two or three of the armed guards threw themselves upon him and, after a brief struggle, wrenched the flask from his hand, but not till he had succeeded in swallowing its contents. Breathing quickly, yet smiling imperturbably, he stood upright and calm. “God’s will and mine--not your Majesty’s--be done!” he said. “In half an hour--or less--Mother Church may add to her list of martyrs the name of Andrea Del Fortis!--who died rather than sacrifice the dignity of his calling to the tyranny of a king!” A slight convulsion passed over his features,--he staggered backward. The King, horror-stricken, signed to the prison warders standing by, to support him. He muttered a word of thanks, as they caught him by both arms. “Take me where I can die quietly!” he said to them, “It will soon be over! I shall give you little trouble!” A cold, weak, trembling hand clasped his. It was the hand of the King’s wretched assassin. “Let me go with you!” he cried--“Let me die with you! You have been cruel to me!--but you could not have meant it!--you were once kind!” Del Fortis thrust him aside.