bent down from his steed and looked
after him laughing as he was carried away.

"Greet the Danube for me" cried he, "when thou hast reached it;" then
turned his horse and galloped across the fields.

CHAPTER XII.

Zeno hastily pursuing his way, had reached the corner of the narrow
street.

Loud cries sounded behind him; he looked round; the flames broke
crackling through the roof of a house close by; it was that of the
Judge, his son-in-law. Full of fresh anxiety he hurried forwards.

After a few steps he came to the door of the priest's small house,
which stood open.

He sprang across the threshold, flew along the narrow,
imperfectly-lighted passage. No Ostiarius, no sub-deacon showed
himself. He hurried into the priest's room, the same into which we have
already been.

It was empty.

The door which led into the adjoining church was ajar.

The fugitive entered and hastened across the dimly-lighted space to the
altar, which, dividing apse and nave, furnished the most sacred asylum
in the church. Here on the steps lay Johannes, stretched out
motionless, with both arms clasping the relic-shrine on the altar.

In his anguish new horror seized the hard Byzantian.

Was he murdered?--He, who might perhaps have been able to protect him?

"Woe is me!" groaned he.

His horror increased when he, who lay as dead, slowly raised himself
and silently turned his pale, venerable face.

"Ha! do the dead rise again?" cried Zeno, shrinking back.

"Why dost thou think me dead?" asked Johannes, regarding his disturbed
countenance with a soul-piercing look.

"Not I--not I--but the Tribune wished"----

"I imagined so! What seekest thou here?"

"Safety! safety!" stammered the usurer; he again thought only of the
danger that was following his steps. "My slaves! All the slaves have
revolted. The Judge's house is in flames."

Then a bright light as of fire shone through the open windows of the
church, and arms clashed in the distance.

"Hearest thou? They are seeking me! They come! Save me! Cover me with
thy body. Here, all this gold"--he threw the heavy bag on the altar, it
burst and single gold pieces ran clinking over the steps on to the
marble pavement. "Alas! it escapes from me faithlessly! All this
gold--or the half--no--all, the whole will I give thee--no, not to
_thee_. I know thou wilt devote it to St. Peter, to thy church, to the
poor--only save me!"

And he threw himself