The monk shook his head. The spark of life flickered up once more.
"Five days without food,—without water,—left here to perish—by a villain—whom the lightnings of heaven may blast—the betrayer of God and of man,—I am dying,—remember,—burial—masses—"
The monk fell back with a gasp. The death-rattle was in his throat.
Eckhardt knelt by his side, raised his head and tried to stem the fleeting tide of life.
"His name! His name!" he shrieked, mad with fear, anguish and despair. "His name! Oh God, let him live but long enough for that,—his name?"
It was too late.
The spark of life had gone out. The murderer of Gregory stood before a higher bar of judgment.
There was a long silence in the rock caves under the Gemonian Stairs. Nothing was to be heard, save the hard breathing of the despairing man. He saw it all now,—all, but the instigator, the abettor of the terrible crime against him. If Ginevra was indeed the last link in that long chain of infamy, which had held its high revels in Castel San Angelo during the past decades, she could never hope to come into her own without some potent ally. The thought lay very near, that she might be intriguing in this very hour to regain the lost power of Marozia. But a second consideration at least staggered this theory. It rather seemed as if the man on whom she had relied for the realization of her terrible ambition had deceived her, after he had made her his own,—or had in some way failed to keep his pledge,—until, in the endeavour to find the support she required, she had sunk from the arms of one into those of another.
A wild shriek resounded through the cavern.
Eckhardt trembled at the sound of his own despair.