Refusing me leave to talk, he told me that he had done his best to pacify the dwarf, and hoped he had succeeded.  The audience had been entirely misled.  They had believed this ending to have been devised for their entertainment, and had completely approved of it.  Our manager had been sent for by the Syndic, congratulated and rewarded by a handsome present.  The piece was to be repeated next evening, and, for the sake of that, it was even promised that the public would sit through the Artaserse again.  Higher testimony, said Belviso, could not have been given to Aristarcho as author, or to me as his exponent.  Far from being in disgrace, I was the hero of Siena.  The Piazza, the cafes were alive with my performance, my stage name of Francesco de’ Pazzi was in everybody’s mouth.  I murmured the name of Aurelia, but Belviso had no notion of that part of my story, and begged me to sleep.  So, after a time, I think I did—­and he also.

At some later hour of the night, which must have been near the edge of dawn, Belviso woke me by springing off his bed and going to the door.  Presently I heard voices downstairs, stern, short, official voices, and the hasty whispers of two or three answering at once.  What was this?  Steps resounded on the stair, a chink in the door revealed a light growing in brightness.  We were broken in upon where we crouched in alarm; and I saw a Corporal of the Guard, two or three troopers, the scared faces of some of our companions.

The corporal held up his candle to look at me.  Our colloquy was very brief.

“You are Francis Strelley, an Englishman?”

“I am.”

“You killed a Capuchin in Florence and fled to Lucca?”

“I did.”

“You were chastised, and expelled the Republic?”

“I was.”

“You are my prisoner, in the Grand Duke’s name.  Get up, dress yourself and follow me.”

Il Nanno had betrayed me, or some other more inveterate enemy.  I rose, put on my shoes and a cloak, and told the officer I was ready.  As I was tying my shoe, Belviso whispered in my ear, “Courage, I follow.”  He bade me a mock farewell, with tears and embraces, and I went out a prisoner.

I understood that I was to be taken at once to the Fortress of Volterra.  Now, indeed, this famous, infamous prison was to have me and bury me alive.

CHAPTER XXXVII

I COMMIT A DOUBLE MURDER

Francis Antony Strelley, Tennis-ball of Fate, should be inscribed upon my tomb, unless like the wandering Jew I were not destined to have any other than that restless globe upon whose shelving surfaces I was for ever to slip and slide.  Here was I once more buffeted on to the road; and yet I could not fairly pretend that there was no fault of mine concerned in the stroke.  O, fatal dower of beauty that was thine, Aurelia!  Could I say that, had I maintained my firm resolve of a few days’ date, and fixed my heart and