Arrived at the inn, Francesco found the public room occupied by a throng of idlers, who would scarcely take their departure before midnight. Stranger to all, as he was, the guests in the place greeted him civilly, as a possible companion, after having studiously examined the cut of his garments. One individual especially favored him with his close attention, unnoticed by Francesco, who, traversing the room, started upstairs to his chamber. Ere he had reached the door, this individual swaggered through the crowd and touched him on the shoulder. Francesco looked at him vaguely; something familiar teased him in the man's face. "Am I addressing Messer Francesco Villani, the papal envoy?" he said awkwardly. Francesco nodded with an air of vague wonder. "What is your business with me?" "I am sent to bring you to one who is dying."-- Francesco, with the custom of his confraternity, turned instantly to go, but on a sudden impulse he lingered. "Who is your master?" he asked with a quick misgiving. "Raniero Frangipani," replied the other gruffly, then after a pause: "He was mortally wounded in the field of Scurcola!" "Lead the way!" Francesco said with quick resolve. The man nodded assent, and together they strode out into the street. "He is in fearsome pain,--about to die," he said. "He is very anxious about his soul's salvation."-- Raniero Frangipani about to die! Raniero Frangipani anxious about his soul! The idea touched Francesco with grim humor. Strange thoughts came to him, as they hastened through the lonely streets. The bright vision of the night shone before his eyes, alluring, beckoning, vanishing. The vision vanished for good in the chamber of death. No other image could hold its own before the face of Raniero. The brow was damp; the unshaven lips were drawn back from the teeth, giving the countenance a sinister aspect. The eyes not only glared, but searched. A scared-looking priest was in the room. He hailed Francesco with relief. "Thank God, you are come," he exclaimed. "I am summoned to hear the confession, but the patient will not make it till he has seen you--Messer Capitano, I withdraw--" he stammered, for the awful eyes had turned in his direction and the lips had uttered a sound. Raniero turned painfully to Francesco, satisfaction, anxiety and something else in his face. "Give me the blessing!" he snarled. "Give it quick!"-- Francesco did not at once comply. He was looking at Raniero, pity and horror, repugnance and tenderness at war in his face. "Must I ask twice?" Raniero had found his voice, harsh, imperious, in all its weakness. Francesco could not refuse to execute his commission, though inwardly he wondered why Raniero had been brought to Naples instead of Astura. He spoke slowly, and the Frangipani's face expressed satisfaction. "That ought to be strong," muttered the wounded man. "A saint's blessing should have great power,--should it not? You ought to know about such things!"