There must be something to fill out his life, some great palpable purpose to which he would devote himself, some high mission, in the fulfilment of which the consciousness of a false existence would become gradually blurred, and eventually wiped out. His whole nature craved for action; the still life of the cloister, far from extinguishing the smouldering fire, had kept it alive with the fuel of dead hopes and broken ambitions. What mattered it in the end in whose cause he fought and bled, so he came out from under the dreary cloud of passive endurance, a slow paralysis of all that was best of him? His love for Ilaria had remained with him, had haunted him all these long and weary months. He felt it would remain with him forever, even though he banished her image from his heart. And banish it he must! He must shake off the dreamer, he must look life in the face. Boldly he must enter the arena in the unequal fight. "Ave Domina, morituri te salutant!"-- The thought seemed to give him back some of his former elasticity. All wavering was at an end. The road seemed dark. Yet there must be a way. Could he but accomplish some great deed, could he but make a name for himself, but prove himself worthy of the love she bore him once,--that, at least, would be atonement! A higher light gleamed in Francesco's eyes, and he heaved a great sigh as he was about to step into the clearing, when the sound of approaching footsteps caused him to pause and listen. They seemed to come in his direction. In the brilliant moonlight he recognized Conradino and Frederick of Austria, Conrad Capecé and the brothers Lancia. They had been making the rounds of the gardens and were returning to the palace. In the gaunt warrior who followed in their wake he recognized the Count Palatine. Where the glistening gravel paths branched off, leading into different parts of the blossoming wilderness, they were joined by another group. Francesco recognized among them Raniero Frangipani, and the ground began to burn under his feet. A thousand invisible eyes seemed to peer at him in his concealment; a thousand invisible fingers seemed to point towards him,--the renegade. They were coming nearer. Now he could hear the sound of their voices. There was no further doubt; they were coming in his direction. It was too late to retrace his steps. If he remained where he stood, they might pass him unheeded, unseen. At this moment Francesco dreaded even the sound of a human voice, the sight of a human face. On the pinnacle of a high resolve he but craved to escape unnoticed, unseen, to be spared further humiliation. Following a strange, inexplicable impulse, or seized with a sudden irresistible panic, which mocked his intentions to scorn, he started to retreat in an opposite direction, when a treacherous moonbeam revealed him to the eye of Raniero Frangipani.