The Countess suddenly rose to her feet. “No more of that,” she cried. “Oh, Jesu Maria! do you think I want to be told what you saw? Do you think I don’t know what it means for you and for me? Decide for yourself, Miss. Examine your own mind. Are you well assured that the day of reckoning has come at last? Are you ready to follow me back, through the crimes of the past, to the secrets of the dead?” She returned again to the writing-table, without waiting to be answered. Her eyes flashed; she looked like her old self once more as she spoke. It was only for a moment. The old ardour and impetuosity were nearly worn out. Her head sank; she sighed heavily as she unlocked a desk which stood on the table. Opening a drawer in the desk, she took out a leaf of vellum, covered with faded writing. Some ragged ends of silken thread were still attached to the leaf, as if it had been torn out of a book. “Can you read Italian?” she asked, handing the leaf to Agnes. Agnes answered silently by an inclination of her head. “The leaf,” the Countess proceeded, “once belonged to a book in the old library of the palace, while this building was still a palace. By whom it was torn out you have no need to know. For what purpose it was torn out you may discover for yourself, if you will. Read it first—at the fifth line from the top of the page.” Agnes felt the serious necessity of composing herself. “Give me a chair,” she said to Henry; “and I will do my best.” He placed himself behind her chair so that he could look over her shoulder and help her to understand the writing on the leaf. Rendered into English, it ran as follows:—