"I will summon thy attendants for a light, my daughter," he remarked to the Lady Adelaide. And when one was brought, the priest advanced to a part of the room where the marble floor was uncovered by tapestry, and tearing the leaves from the Book, he set light to them, till all, both the Old and New Testament, were consumed, and the ashes scattered on the ground. "It is the most dangerous instructor that can be placed in the hands of the people," he observed, complacently watching the black mass smouldering there. And Gina Montani pressed her hands upon her chest, which was throbbing with agitation, but she did not dare to utter a word of remonstrance. "Oh, father, father!" cried the Lady Adelaide, sinking at his feet, after Gina had been conducted to her chamber, and giving vent involuntarily to sobs of agony, "she has dared to come between me and my husband—he has known her long, it seems. If she should have tainted him with this black heresy?" The monk turned as white as the lady’s dress at the suggestion. It was enough to make him. That that docile and faithful servant of the Church, the powerful Chief of Visinara, who was ever ready, at only half a hint, to endow it with valuable offerings and presents—entire robes of point lace for the Virgin Mary, and flounces and tuckers for all the female saints in the calendar, not to speak of his donations in hard cash, and his frequent offerings of paintings, most of them representing the popes working miracles, particularly that very pious one, Alexander VI.—that _he_ should have had dissent instilled into him, perhaps even been made familiar with the principles of this upstart creed! Had his reverence swooned outright, it would have only been what might be expected. "It will not be a crime to remove her, father," faltered the Lady Adelaide. "_Crime_!" cried the ruffled priest; "canst thou connect the word—in that sense—with so degraded a being?" "To remove her in _any way_," persisted the lady, in a whisper. "Yet the world might call it MURDER." "No punishment in this world is adequate to her sin," answered the monk. "And she must not be suffered to remain in it." "Thou wilt then grant me absolution beforehand, holy father," implored the Lady Adelaide. "And what canst thou do, my child?" resumed the monk, smiling upon the countess. "Thou hast not been used to such work, and wouldst prove a sad novice at it." "Too true," she uttered; "my heart is trembling now. Indeed, I could think but of one way—the moat. And though the order seems easy enough to give, I fear I should, when the moment came, shrink from issuing it." "And who hast thou in this castle that will do thy bidding in secret and in silence? It were better that this deed were not known: and thou canst not stop tongues, my daughter."