“What is the hour?” asked the lackey.
“Four hours past midnight.”
“My pretty lad,” said the lackey solemnly, “say a mass for thy friend's soul: for he is not among living men.”
The morning broke. Worn out with fatigue, Andrea and Pietro went home, heart sick.
The days rolled on, mute as the Tiber as to Gerard's fate.
CHAPTER LXVII
It would indeed have been strange if with such barren data as they possessed, those men could have read the handwriting on the river's bank.
For there on that spot an event had just occurred, which, take it altogether, was perhaps without a parallel in the history of mankind, and may remain so to the end of time.
But it shall be told in a very few words, partly by me, partly by an actor in the scene.