“They have no warrant.  They will get that afterwards.  Do you think them so stupid?  While they were getting their warrant you might get clear away.  Or suppose you appeared?  The whole story might come out, and a number of fine people implicated.  And what of your English resident?  And what of your Donna Aurelia, if you are not careful of yourself?  Do you wish to get her name abroad?  No, no.  In Tuscany we imprison a man first and get the warrant afterwards, if necessary.  That is how they will work, quietly, with decency—­no conversations.  They have been here since eight o’clock this morning, and the Piazza is quite empty.  They have seen to that, of course.  If you look through the shutter you can see them.  They are in no sort of hurry.”

I did look, and saw that she was right.  There were no people in the Piazza—­at midday—­but four men, who stood at intervals in attitudes of detachment and irresponsibility far too pronounced to be real.  The church was closed, most of the houses were shuttered; all this was too remarkable not to have been arranged.  Virginia and I looked at one another; but she watched me like a cat, keeping guard over every movement of mine.  One hand pressed her bosom, the other was stretched downwards—­a straight, tense line from shoulder to finger-tips.

“Virginia, listen to me,” I began; a heedless invocation.  Every fibre of her listened and watched.  “If this is a trap, as I agree it is, then you are the mouse.  Nobody in Florence would care whether I have shot Fra Palamone, or he me.  The count—­taking him as you take him—­knows that I have no intentions but honest ones towards Donna Aurelia; taking him as I take him he will defend me.  No, my child, this is the marchese’s affair.  I can see that he has been after you from the time he saw you playing the handsome lady at Prato.  He thinks he has you, but I will show him that he is wrong.  Let me once get you away, be assured of your safety, and I shall open the door to the pleasure of these gentlemen.  Father Carnesecchi—­the count—­oh, I have no fear of Palamone’s posthumous acts, I can assure you.”

I spoke cheerfully, confidently, but Virginia was put into great agitation.  She began to flit about the room like a moth, wringing her hands and whimpering to herself.

“O Dio!” she fretted, “O Dio caro!  What shall I do?  Madonna, Madonna, Madonna, what will become of me?” She was quite inarticulate, could only repeat her names, and wail, and beat herself into a fever.  I went to comfort her, and then, as if some tie were cut by the act, she turned upon me in a white tempest of fury, no longer a girl but a devil.  “Do you dare?” she raved, “Do you dare?  Oh, but I could kill you now with my hands!” She took me by the shoulders and stared into my face, panting her fierce breath upon me—­blasts of breath as hot as fire.  “Look at me, Francis, look at me, I say.  You see the one person in the world who loves you.  You fool, you fool, with your Giraldis and Aurelias