Frà Giovanni did not listen to him. His quick brain was solving a strange problem—the problem of the price that these people, in their turn, should pay to Venice. When he had solved it, he turned to the cringing figure at his feet.
"Signor Rocca," he said, "do you know of what I am thinking?"
"Of mercy, Excellency; of mercy for one who has not deserved it."
"But who can deserve it?"
"Excellency, hearken to me. I swear by all the saints—"
"In whose name you blaspheme, rascal. Have I not heard your oath in Naples when the irons seared your flesh? Shall I listen again when the fire is being made ready, and there is burning coal beneath the bed you will lie upon to-night, Signor Rocca?"
"Oh! for God's sake, Excellency!"
"Not so; for the sake of Venice, rather."
"I will be your slave—I swear it on the cross—I will give my life—"
"Your precious life, Signor Rocca!—nay, what a profligate you are!"