o Braschi at the other side of the piazza, and going up the
marble staircase on limbs that could scarcely support him, his thoughts
went back in a broken maze to the scene he had left behind.

"Our little boy dead! Dead in his mother's arms! O God! let me meet the
man face to face!... Our innocent darling! The light of our eyes put out
in a moment! Our sweet little Joseph!... Shall there be no retribution?
God forbid! The man who has been the chief cause of this crime shall be
the first to suffer punishment. No use wasting time on the hounds who
executed his orders. They are only delegates of police, and over them is
this Minister of the Interior. He alone is responsible, and he is here!"

When he reached the green baize door to the hall, he stopped to wipe
away the perspiration which stood on his forehead although his face was
flecked with snow. The messengers looked scared when he stepped inside,
and they answered his questions with obvious hesitation. The Minister
was not in his cabinet. He had not been there that night. It was
possible the Honourable might find his Excellency at home.

Rossi turned on his heel instantly, and went hurriedly downstairs. He
would go to the Palazzo Leone. There was no time to lose. Presently the
man would hide himself in the darkness like a toad under a stone.

As he left the Ministry of the Interior he heard the singing of the
Garibaldi Hymn in the distance, and turning into the Corso Victor
Emmanuel, he came upon crowds of people and some noisy and tumultuous
scenes.

One group had broken into a gun-shop and seized rifles and cartridges;
another group had taken possession of two electric tram-cars, and
tumbled them on their sides to make a barricade across the street; and a
third group was tearing up the street itself to use the stones for
missiles. "Our turn now," they were shouting, and there were screams of
delirious laughter.

As Rossi crossed the bridge of St. Angelo the cannon was fired from the
Castle, and he knew that it was meant for a signal. "No matter!" he
thought. "It will be too late when the soldiers arrive."

Notwithstanding the tumult in the city the Piazza of St. Peter's was
silent and deserted. Not the sound of a footfall, not the rattle of a
carriage-wheel; only the swish-swish of the fountains, whose waters were
playing in the lamplight through the falling snow, and the echoing
hammer of the clock of the Basilica.

The porter of the Palazzo Leone was aslee