Swiftly I crossed to the door, and opened. On the threshold a dark figure straightened itself from a stooping posture, and the light of the taper behind me fell on a face of a pallor that seemed to glisten in its intensity. It was the face of Mariani, the seneschal of the Castle of Cessna. One glance we exchanged, and intuitively I seemed to apprehend the motive of this midnight visit. He came either to bring me aid or to seek mine, with vengeance for his guerdon. I stood aside, and silently he entered my room and closed the door. “Quench your taper,” he bade me in a husky whisper. Without hesitation I obeyed him, a strange excitement thrilling me. For a second we stood in the dark, then another light gleamed as he plucked away the cloak that masked a lanthorn which he had brought with him. He set the lanthorn on the floor, and held the cloak in his hand, ready at a moment’s notice to conceal the light in its folds. Then pulling me down beside him on the bed, where he had perched himself: “My friend,” said he, “it may be that I bring you assistance.” “Speak, then,” I bade him. “You shall not find me slow to act if there is the need or the way.” “So I had surmised,” he said. “Are you not that same Boccadoro, Fool of the Court of Pesaro, who donned the Lord Giovanni’s armour and rode out to do battle in his stead?” I answered him that I was that man. “I have heard the tale,” said he. “Indeed, all Italy has heard it, and knows you for a man of steel, as strong and audacious as you are cunning and resourceful. I know against what desperate odds you fought that day, and how you overcame this terrible Ramiro. This it is that leads me to hope that in the service of your own ends you may become the instrument of my vengeance.” “Unfold your project, man,” I muttered, fiercely almost, in my burning eagerness. “Let me hear what you would have me do.” He did not answer me until a sob had shaken his old frame. “That boy,” he muttered brokenly, “that golden-haired angel sent me for the consolation of my decaying years, that lad whom Ramiro destroyed so foully and wantonly, was my son. Futile though the attempt had proved, I had certainly set my hands at the tyrants neck, but that I founded hopes on you of a surer and more terrible revenge. That thought has manned me and upheld me when anguish was near to slaying me outright. To see the boy burn so under my very eyes! God of mercy and pity! That I should have lived so long!” “Your child burned but a moment, suffered but an instant; for the deed, Ramiro will burn in Hell through countless generations, through interminable ages.” It was a paltry consolation, perhaps, but it was the best that then occurred to me. “Meanwhile,” I begged him, “do you tell me what you would have me do.” I urged him to it that he might, thereby, suffer his mind to rest a moment from pondering that ghastly thing that he had witnessed, that scene that would live before his eyes until they closed in their last sleep.