"Well, I will speed," said the friar; "I promised always to be ready at his bidding, and I never fail to keep my word. But I have a letter to write--nay, it is but short--ten words are enough. I will but step into this scrivener's and borrow pen and paper. Then I will go for my mule. It is a quick beast and enduring, and I shall reach Forli ere night."
Thus saying, he sped away, and, procuring the means of writing, considered for one moment, and then decided on the words he was to use for the purpose of conveying his meaning without betraying his secret.
"Illustrious Lord," he wrote at length, "my part of the business is over. I have confessed my penitent and given her the viaticum. It is for you to discover whether she came to her present state fairly; and, I doubt not, if her chamber is closely searched, and her women examined, enough will be made manifest to fix the guilt upon the right person. Go slowly and go surely. I am called suddenly to Forli by commands I dare not disobey; but, if possible, I will be in Imola again ere to-morrow night."
He read the words over more than once, and then saying, "That discloses nothing," folded the paper and sealed it. His next consideration was by whose hands he should convey it to Ramiro d'Orco. The scrivener himself was an old acquaintance; and, after some thought, he decided to entrust the letter to him. Many were the injunctions he laid upon him to deliver it immediately on the Lord of Imola's return: and then he sought his mule and set out for Forli.
But the scrivener was fond of knowing every one's secrets--it was part of his profession in those days. Thus the seal of the letter was not very long intact. The contents puzzled the old man. He saw there was a double meaning; but he could not divise the enigma. "I will find out by-and-bye," he said; and, sitting down, he deliberately took a copy of the letter. Then, by a process still well known in Italy, he sealed it up again, so that no eye could detect that the cover had been opened.
About half an hour after all this had been done, people were seen hurrying through the streets, and symptoms of agitation and terror were apparent in the town.
"What is the matter? what is the matter, Signor Medico?" asked the scrivener, running out from his booth, and catching the sleeve of a physician who was walking more slowly than the rest.
"The Countess Visconti, the lady of the prefect, has been poisoned, they say," replied the physician. "I know no more about it, for they did not send for me, or perhaps I might have saved her."
"Then she is dead?" asked the scrivener.
"Ay, dead enough," answered the other, and walked on.