Raniero had found his voice, harsh, imperious, in all its weakness.
Francesco could not refuse to execute his commission, though inwardly he wondered why Raniero had been brought to Naples instead of Astura. He spoke slowly, and the Frangipani's face expressed satisfaction.
"That ought to be strong," muttered the wounded man. "A saint's blessing should have great power,—should it not? You ought to know about such things!"
He spoke with an effort, yet with more force than would have been supposed possible.
"It will be of no avail, if one dies unrepentant," said Francesco.
"Well, I shall not die unrepentant," returned Raniero with a curious look. "I shall be honest,—and thorough! Have you the indulgence,—and the last absolution,—and the Host,—and—the oil?" he continued hoarsely. "They make a good showing,—if one is really holy! One takes one's little precautions!"
Something like terror mingled with hatred flared up in his eyes, as he spoke; then, becoming more direct, he turned to Francesco. "And now,—for you and me!"—
White hate blazed suddenly in the eyes, then was quenched beneath the light of cunning.
Francesco was mute. How could he speak to this man of the love of God!