bittered his life. He pictured to himself his wife and
daughter listening respectfully to his harangues and beginning to
practise his principles, Gianbattista, an eloquent member of the society
in the inner room of the old inn, reformed, purged from his sneaking
fondness for Paolo--since Paolo would not be in the world any
longer--and ultimately married to Lucia, the father of children who
should all be baptized in the name of Reason, and the worthy successor
of himself, Marzio Pandolfi.

Scrutinising the statue under his lens, he detected a slight
imperfection in the place where one of the sharp thorns touched the
silver forehead of the beautiful, tortured head. He looked about for a
tool fine enough for the work, but none suited his wants. He took up the
long fine-pointed punch he had thrown back upon the table after the
scene in the morning. It was too long, and over sharp, but by turning it
sideways it would do the work under his dexterous fingers.

"Strange!" he muttered, as he tapped upon the tool. "It is like a
consecration!"

When he had made the stroke he dropped the instrument into the pocket of
his blouse, as though fearing to lose it. He had no occasion to use it
again, though he went on with his work during several hours.

The thoughts which had passed through his brain recurred, and did not
diminish in clearness. On the contrary, it was as though the passing
impulse of the morning had grown during those short hours into a settled
and unchangeable resolution. Once he rose from his stool, and going to
the corner, dragged away the iron-bound safe from its place. A rusty
ring lay flat in a little hollow in the surface of the trap-door. Marzio
bent over it with a pale face and gleaming eyes. It seemed to him as
though, if he looked round, he should see Paolo's body lying on the
floor, ready to be dropped into the space below. He raised the wood and
set the trap back against the wall, peering down into the black depths.
A damp smell came up to his nostrils from the moist staircase. He struck
a match, and held it into the opening, to see in what direction the
stairs led down.

Something moved behind him and made a little noise. With a short cry of
horror Marzio sprang back from the opening and looked round. It was as
though the body of the murdered man had stirred upon the floor. His
overstrained imagination terrified him, and his eyes started from his
head. He examined the bench and saw the cause of the sou