They drank with acclamation, and then set to a-dicing. I had however heard enough, and settling my account with the host, stepped forth into the street, intending to depart from the town by the Porta San Spirito or Roman Gate, leaving the camp over my shoulder, and to make my way to Florence as soon as possible. There I would meet D'Entrangues, and kill him like a mad dog. I ground my teeth with rage when I thought I had no horse, nor even the means to purchase one, and must trudge it like any _contadino_. But if I had to crawl on my hands and knees, I was determined to reach Florence and D'Entrangues. It was however not yet sundown, and my idea was to leave the city when it was well dusk to avoid all possible chance of recognition. I meant to have passed the interval in the inn; but, as I felt this was impossible, it was necessary to find another spot where I could lay in quiet. With this end in view I crossed the Piazza di Popolo in an easterly direction, and went on until I came to the Franciscan church, into which I entered, not, I am sorry to say, with any desire for devotion, but merely because I was less likely to be disturbed there than anywhere else I could imagine. I was right, in so far that on entering the church I found it, as I thought, empty, but on looking round I saw beneath the newly-completed wheel-window, the work of Guillaume de Marseille, a kneeling figure, apparently absorbed in prayer. I had approached quite close before I became aware that I was not alone, and was about to turn away, when, perhaps startled by the sound of my footfalls on the marble pavement, the person rose hurriedly and looked towards me. It was Madame D'Entrangues. Her glance met mine for a second as that of a stranger, but as I was moving away some trick of gesture, or perhaps the hot anger in my eyes, told her who I was, for, calling my name, she came towards me with outstretched hands. "Di Savelli," she said, for I made no advance, "do you not know me?" "Madame," I bowed, "I am unfit to touch you." "No, no--a thousand times no! It is I who am unworthy." I still remained silent, and she asked with a passionate emphasis-- "Man, have you never sinned?" The words struck me like a shot. I felt in a moment I had no right to stand in judgment. "God knows," I replied, "I have, and I have been punished." With that she took hold of my hand, and then suddenly burst into tears, weeping over me with words I cannot repeat. It was not for me to fling reproaches, and I softened and did what I could to appease her. "I could not help it," she said, "I was not strong enough to speak or to let you speak. Oh, you do not know what such a thing is to a woman!" "Let it pass, madame. What is dead is dead." "I cannot. And yet, what can I do?" Her tears began afresh.