Dalrymple sat up suddenly and listened, wide awake at once. The square of his window was faintly visible in the darkness, as though the dawn were breaking. He called out, asking who was outside.
"Get up, Signore! Get up! You are wanted quickly!" It was Stefanone.
Dalrymple struck a light, for he had a supply of matches with him, a convenience of modern life not at that time known in Subiaco, except as an expensive toy, though already in use in Rome. As he was, he opened the door. Stefanone came in, dressed in his shirt and breeches, pale with excitement.
"You must dress yourself, Signore," he said briefly, as he glanced at the Scotchman, and then set down the small tin and glass lantern he carried.
"What is the matter?" inquired Dalrymple, yawning, and stretching his great white arms over his head, till his knuckles struck the low ceiling; for he was a tall man.
"The matter is that they have killed Sor Tommaso," answered the peasant.
Dalrymple uttered an exclamation of surprise and incredulity.
"It is as I say," continued Stefanone. "They found him lying across the way, in the street, with knife-wounds in him, as many as you please."
"That is horrible!" exclaimed Dalrymple, turning, and calmly trimming his lamp, which burned badly at first.
"Then dress yourself, Signore!" said Stefanone, impatiently. "You must come!"