"My message, signorè, is this—that at ten o'clock to-night, the Count of Pisa will have ceased to live."
A strange cry, terrible in its pathos, escaped the woman's lips. All had risen to their feet again. The swords of the three leaped from their scabbards. The instant of the priest's death seemed at hand. But he stood, resolute, before them.
"At ten o'clock," he repeated sternly, "the Count of Pisa will have ceased to live. That is his message, signori, to one in this house. And to you, the Marquis of Cittadella, there is another message."
He turned to one of the three who had begun to rail at him, and raised his hand as in warning. So great was the curiosity to hear his words that the swords were lowered again, and again there could be heard the ticking of a clock in the great room.
"For me—a message! Surely I am favored, signorè."
"Of that you shall be the judge, since, at dawn to-morrow, your head will lie on the marble slab between the columns of the Piazzetta."
They greeted him with shouts of ridicule.
"A prophet—a prophet!"
"A prophet indeed," he answered quietly, "who has yet a word to speak to you, Andrea Foscari."
"To me!" exclaimed the man addressed, who was older than the others, and who wore the stola of the nobility.