"The death rattle of one sounds to my ears just like that of another, my lord," Maraglia replied, quaking under the look that was upon him. "And the voices of the few who still abide are growing weaker day by day." "They shall not much longer annoy your delicate ears," Basil replied. "The Senator who has found this abode somewhat too draughty has departed for the holy shrines, to do penance for the death of his mother. He suspects all was not well. He would know more. Perchance the Archangel may grant him a revelation. Meanwhile, we must to work. The new captain appointed by the Senator enters his service on the morrow. A holy man, much given to contemplation over the mysteries of love. His attention must be diverted. Every trace of life must be extinct--this very night. No proofs must be allowed to remain. Meanwhile, what of the apparition whereof you rave?" "It is there, my lord, as sure as my soul lives," replied the castellan. "A shapeless something, preceded by a breath, cold as from a newly dug grave." "A shapeless something, say you? Whence comes it and where goes it? For whose diversion does it perambulate?" "The astrologer monk perchance who improvises prophecies." "Then let his improvising damn himself," replied Basil sullenly. "To call himself inspired and pretend to read the stars! How about his prophecy now?" "He holds to it!" "What! That I have less than one month to live?" "Just that--no more!"-- Basil gave the speaker a quick glance. "What niggardly dispensation and presumption withal! This fellow to claim kinship with the stars! To profess to be in their confidence, to share the secrets of the heavens while he is smothered by darkness, utter and everlasting. The heavens mind you, Maraglia! My star! It is a star of darker red than Mars and crosses Hell--not Heaven! In thought I watch it every night with sleepless eyes. Is it not well to cleanse the earth of such lying prophets that truth may have standing room? Where have you lodged him?" "In the Hermit's cell--" "Well done! Thereby he shall prove his asceticism. Let practised abstinence save him in such a pass! He shall eat his words--an everlasting banquet. A fat astrologer--by the token--as I hear, was he not?" "He was fat when he entered." "Wretch! Would you starve him? Remember the worms and the fishes--your friends. Would you cheat them? Hath he foretold his end?" "Ay--by starvation." "He lies! You shall take him in extremis and, with your knife in his throat, give him the lie. An impostor proved. What of the night?" "It rains and thunders." "Why should we mind rain and thunder? Lead me to this madman, and, incidentally, to this phantom that keeps him company. Why do you gape, Maraglia? Move on! I follow!" Maraglia was ill at ease, but he dared not disobey. Taking up one of the candles, he led the way, trembling, his face ashen, his teeth chattering, as if in the throes of a chill.