"The morning dawns already," said the Confessor, still more urgently. "Do you faulter? do you tremble? Do I not know you?"
Spalatro put up the poniard in his bosom without speaking, threw the cloak over his arm, and moved with a loitering step towards the door.
"Dispatch!" repeated the Confessor, "why do you linger?"
"I cannot say I like this business, Signor," said Spalatro surlily. "I know not why I should always do the most, and be paid the least."
"Sordid villain!" exclaimed Schedoni, "you are not satisfied then!"
"No more a villain than yourself, Signor," retorted the man, throwing down the cloak, "I only do your business; and 'tis you that are sordid, for you would take all the reward, and I would only have a poor man have his dues. Do the work yourself, or give me the greater profit."
"Peace!" said Schedoni, "dare no more to insult me with the mention of reward. Do you imagine I have sold myself! 'Tis my will that she dies; this is sufficient; and for you—the price you have asked has been granted."
"It is too little," replied Spalatro, "and besides, I do not like the work.—What harm has she done me?"
"Since when is it, that you have taken upon you to moralize?" said the Confessor, "and how long are these cowardly scruples to last? This is not the first time you have been employed; what harm had others done you! You forget that I know you, you forget the past."
"No, Signor, I remember it too well, I wish I could forget; I remember it too well.—I have never been at peace since. The bloody hand is always before me! and often of a night, when the sea roars, and storms shake the house, they have come, all gashed as I left them, and stood before my bed! I have got up, and ran out upon the shore for safety!"