“You sleep very soundly for a man in your case.” said he, and the voice was that of my Lord Gambara, its tone quite coldly critical. He set down the lanthorn on a stool, whence it shed a wheel of yellow light intersected with black beams. His cloak fell apart, and I saw that he was dressed for riding, very plainly, in sombre garments, and that he was armed. He stood slightly to one side that the light might fall upon my face, leaving his own in shadow; thus he considered me for some moments in silence. At last, very slowly, very bitterly, shaking his head as he spoke. “You fool, you clumsy fool!” he said. Having drawn, as you have seen, my own conclusions from the attitude of the mob, I was in little doubt as to the precise bearing of his words. I answered him sincerely. “If folly were all my guilt,” said I, “it would be well.” He sniffed impatiently. “Still sanctimonious!” he sneered. “Tcha! Up now, and play the man, at least. You have shed your robe of sanctity, Messer Agostino; have done with pretence!” “I do not pretend,” I answered him. “And as for playing the man, I shall accept what punishment the law may have for me with fortitude at least. If I can but expiate...” “Expiate a fig!” he snapped, interrupting me. “Why do you suppose that I am here?” “I wait to learn.” “I am here because through your folly you have undone us all. What need,” he cried, the anger of expostulation quivering in his voice, “what need was there to kill that oaf Fifanti?” “He would have killed me,” said I. “I slew him in self-defence.” “Ha! And do you hope to save your neck with such a plea?” “Nay. I have no thought of urging it. I but tell it you.” “There is not the need to tell me anything,” he answered, his anger very plain. “I am very well informed of all. Rather, let me tell you something. Do you realize, sir, that you have made it impossible for me to abide another day in Piacenza?” “I am sorry...” I began lamely. “Present your regrets to Satan,” he snapped. “Me they avail nothing. I am put to the necessity of abandoning my governorship and fleeing by night like a hunted thief. And I have you to thank for it. You see me on the point of departure. My horses wait above. So you may add my ruin to the other fine things you accomplished yesternight. For a saint you are over-busy, sir.” And he turned away and strode the length of my cell and back, so that, at last, I had a glimpse of his face, which was drawn and scowling. Gone now was the last vestige of his habitual silkiness; the pomander-ball hung neglected, and his delicate fingers tugged viciously at his little pointed beard, his great sapphire ring flashing sombrely. “Look you, Ser Agostino, I could kill you and take joy in it. I could, by God!”