Now, at this end, Naples had become a shambles. Shot and fire and sharp steel, butchery and festering wounds and starvation, had left of the “patriot” hosts but a little mean swarm, that rotted out its remnant life in the prisons, awaiting the holocaust. Pissani and all his high hopes were scattered. The gods had no desire to be worshipped by Reason, missing their perquisites, as this “long-legged Hebe” might well at the first have assured Liberty’s apostles, if they had not been at the pains to discard her. She had been in Paris; had seen Reason sit in the churches; had heard the millennium proclaimed, and Olympus echo laughter. And what had been the result? Not till the temples of superstition were razed in all the lands, not till Reason sat in the fields, would the first glimmer of that golden dawn appear. This she knew from the table-talk whispers of the new race, which had decreed the old Titan Nature a vulgarity, and, having overthrown it in the common hearts of men, dreaded nothing but the destruction of the countless schools of sophistry on which its own lease of dominion depended. And I, who had preached, who had been ardent again to preach their crusade against a detestable lie, had been insulted by these wise reformers, and been driven back to pour headstrong wine to the gods of rank desire, and help them to hold the world a market to their passions! O, Pissani had done well indeed! And yet he was not among the captured. One day, near the finish, de’ Medici accosted me alone in the palace gardens. It was mid-June, and the scent of roses was thick in the air. I looked in his face, and, for all the warmth and fragrance, my heart was winter. “He still baffles you, monsieur?” “Most beautiful, the man is a fox, or perhaps already a ghost.” “Go on. You have something else to say.” A stealthy smile creased his mouth. “Keen as thou art fair. Know, then, that his wife is in our hands.” “Again, go on,” I whispered. I could hardly breathe. “We found her like a little torn rat in a sewer--ragged, half starved.” He gulped, and looked up with a pallid grin. “Have I not deserved? It is the better half of the bargain. Vouchsafe me my reward in advance.” I paid no heed to his question, asking him only-- “Where is she?” “In the Carmine.” “And a hostage?” He shivered, and hung his head. “I understand you, madam,” he muttered. “But she is dumb to all our questions, to all our threats.” I turned away with a laugh. “And you are a humane man, monsieur, and a susceptible. Well, it is not for me to teach the inquisitor his trade.” “Understand,” I said, facing round once more, “that I cannot rest, or live, or love, while this remains unaccomplished.” He did not answer; but, standing irresolute a moment, shrugged his shoulders and left me. But I knew at last that the moment was near.