The Making of a Saint

by W. Somerset Maugham

'What news? What news?' they asked.

Then suddenly I remembered the terrible story I had to tell, for in my own happiness I had forgotten everything that went before. I suddenly became grave.

'Bad news,' I said. 'Bad news.'

'Oh, God! I have been foreboding it. Every night I have dreamed awful things.'

'Checco,' I answered. 'I have done all I could; but, alas! it has been of no avail. You left me as a protector and I have been able to protect no one.'

'Go on!'

Then I began my story. I told them how the Council had opened the gates, surrendering unconditionally, and how the Countess had sallied forth in triumph. That was nothing. If there had been no worse news for them than that! But Checco clenched his hands as I related the sacking of his palace. And I told him how old Orso had refused to fly and had been seized, while I had lain senseless on the floor.

'You did your best, Filippo,' said Checco. 'You could do nothing more. But afterwards?'

I told them how Marco Scorsacana and Pietro had been taken prisoners, and led into the town like thieves caught in the act; how the crowd had gathered together, and how they had been brought to the square and hanged from the Palace window, and their bodies torn to pieces by the people.

'Oh, God!' uttered Checco. 'And all this is my fault.'