They turned back to their places in the court, to the surprise and sudden awakening of new interest in the audience, and ordered that the new witness who had presented himself should be admitted and heard.

And Father Fabiano, bowed with age, and his hoary head bent down on his breast, but neither shivering nor shaking, advanced to the witness-table.  The crucifix was lying on it, and the friar, with the manner of a man recognizing in a new employment tools which he is well used to, at once stretched out his emaciated and claw-like hand, and made oath that he was about to speak the truth.

The Procuratore of the court then began to examine the old man with reference to his knowledge of the circumstances connected with the visit of Paolina Foscarelli to the church of St. Apollinare, and her disposal of herself after leaving it; but the friar replied that it would be uselessly occupying the time of the court to enter into any such particulars, inasmuch as he had come thither to prove that Paolina had nothing whatever to do with the crime.

“But,” remarked the Procuratore, “if it is in your power to do that, why did you not give the necessary information to the Commissary of Police when you were, on several occasions, examined at St. Apollinare?”

“Signori miei,” said the old man, addressing himself to the court in general, “it is no affair of mine to meddle with the administration of human justice.  No words that I could say could undo the deed, or bring the murdered woman back to life.  Evil enough had been done.  Why should I cause further trouble, and sorrow, and shame, to others?  It was more fitting to one of my order to leave retribution in the hands of Him who can best award it, and whose mercy may touch the heart of the sinner with repentance.”

“But if so, frate mio,” rejoined the Procuratore, “what, pray, is the motive that now brings you here?”

“Surely, the determination that the innocent shall not suffer for the guilty.  It seemed to me that it would never be known, save to Him who knows the secrets of all hearts, what hand had done that terrible deed; but now I know that the fallibility of all human judgment has led questi Signori to the conclusion that the girl Paolina is guilty, and her condemnation would be a misfortune greater than the first—­I knowing the hand which did that deed.”

“Ha, you know the murderer; you suppose you know him?  You come to offer us your guess, your suggestion?”

“I come, Signori miei, with pain and sorrow and great reluctance, to save you from condemning an innocent person by naming him who is guilty.”

A sort of buzz and almost shiver of interest, anxiety, and expectation ran through the court, as the old friar spoke the above words in a stronger voice than that in which he had yet spoken.

“Friar,” said the Procuratore solemnly and severely; “it is my duty, before you speak, to warn you to take heed to what you say.  You are about, you say, to make an accusation the most tremendous that one man can bring against another.  Bethink you whether you are able to substantiate what you are about to utter.  Remember that, if you cannot substantiate it, it would be an hundred-fold better that your suspicion should remain unuttered.”