"They whisper of torture chambers, where knife and screw and pulley never rest--of horrors that make the blood freeze in the veins--of phantoms of fair women that haunt the silent galleries--strange wails of anguish that sound nightly from the subterranean vaults--" "A goodly account that ought vastly to interest the Grand Penitentiary--were it--with proper decorum--whispered in his ear. It would make him forget--for the time at least--the dirty Roman gossip. Deem you not, good Il Gobbo?" "I am not versed in such matters, my lord," replied the bravo, ill at ease. "Perhaps your lordship will now tell me why this fondness for my society?" "To confess truth, good Il Gobbo, I did not join you merely to meditate upon the pleasant things of life. Rather to be inspired to some extraordinary adventure such as my hungry soul yearns for. As for the nature thereof, I shall leave that to the notoriously wicked fertility of your imagination." The lurid tone of the speaker startled the bravo. "My lord, you would not lay hands on the Lord's anointed?" Il Gobbo met a glance that made the blood freeze in his veins. "Is it the thing you call your conscience that ails you, or some sudden indigestion? Or is the bribe not large enough?" The bravo doggedly shook his head. "Courage lieth not always in bulk," he growled. "May my soul burn to a crisp in the everlasting flames if I draw steel against the Lord's anointed." "Silence, fool! What you do in my service shall not burden your soul! Have you forgotten our compact?" "That I have not, my lord! But since the Senator of Rome has favored me with his especial attention, I too have something to lose, which some folk hereabout call their honor." "Your honor!" sneered the Grand Chamberlain. "It is like the skin of an onion. Peel off one, there's another beneath." "My skin then--" the bravo growled doggedly. "However--if the lord Basil will confide in me--" "Pray lustily to your patron saint and frequent the chapel of the Grand Penitentiary," replied Basil suavely, beckoning to Il Gobbo to follow him. "But beware, lest in your zeal to confess you mistake my peccadillos for your own." With these words the two worthies slowly retraced their steps in the direction of Mount Aventine and were soon lost to sight. CHAPTER II THE WEAVING OF THE SPELL After they had disappeared Tristan stood at gaze, puzzled where to turn, for the spectacle had suddenly changed. New bands of revellers had invaded the Piazza Navona, and it seemed indeed as if the Eve of St. John were assuming the character of the ancient Lupercalia, for the endless variety of costumes displayed by a multitude assembled from every corner of Italy, Spain, Greece, Africa, and the countries of the North, was now exaggerated by a wild fancifulness and grotesque variety of design.