er this indifferent or hostile scrutiny, he thought
how much easier it would be to face a rain of bullets than this
withering glare of criticism. A sudden longing to escape, to be done
with it all, came over him with sickening force. His nerves ached with
the physical strain of holding himself upright on his horse, of
preserving the statuesque erectness proper to the occasion. He felt like
one of his own ancestral effigies, of which the wooden framework had
rotted under the splendid robes. A congestion at the head of a narrow
street had checked the procession, and he was obliged to rein in his
horse. He looked about and found himself in the centre of the square
near the Baptistery. A few feet off, directly in a line with him, was
the weather-worn front of the Royal Printing-Press. He raised his head
and saw a group of people on the balcony. Though they were close at
hand, he saw them in a blur, against which Fulvia's figure suddenly
detached itself. She had told him that she was to view the procession
with the Andreonis; but through the mental haze which enveloped him her
apparition struck a vague surprise. He looked at her intently, and their
eyes met. A faint happiness stole over her face, but no recognition was
possible, and she continued to gaze out steadily upon the throng below
the balcony. Involuntarily his glance followed hers, and he saw that she
was herself the centre of the crowd's attention. Her plain, almost
Quakerish habit, and the tranquil dignity of her carriage, made her a
conspicuous figure among the animated groups in the adjoining windows,
and Odo, with the acuteness of perception which a public life develops,
was instantly aware that her name was on every lip. At the same moment
he saw a woman close to his horse's feet snatch up her child and make
the sign against the evil eye. A boy who stood staring open-mouthed at
Fulvia caught the gesture and repeated it; a barefoot friar imitated the
boy, and it seemed to Odo that the familiar sign was spreading with
malignant rapidity to the furthest limits of the crowd. The impression
was only momentary; for the cavalcade was again in motion, and without
raising his eyes he rode on, sick at heart...

* * * * *

At nightfall a man opened the gate of the ducal gardens below the
Chinese pavilion and stepped out into the deserted lane. He locked the
gate and slipped the key into his pocket; then he turned and walked
toward the centre of