"It is I, my lord."

"What is it?"

"They have just fixed the prince's death for tomorrow, on his way to the
hunt."

"Did you recognise every conspirator?"

"Every one, though their faces were masked; when they gave their vote
for death, I knew them by their voices."

"Could you point out to me who they are?"

"Yes, this very minute; they are going to pass along at the end of this
corridor. And see, here is Tommaso Pace walking in front of them to
light their way."

Indeed, a tall spectral figure, black from head to foot, his face
carefully hidden under a velvet mask, walked at the end of the corridor,
lamp in hand, and stopped at the first step of a staircase which led to
the upper floors. The conspirators advanced slowly, two by two, like
a procession of ghosts, appeared for one moment in the circle of light
made by the torch, and again disappeared into shadow.

"See, there are Charles and Bertrand of Artois," said the notary; "there
are the Counts of Terlizzi and Catanzaro; the grand admiral and grand
seneschal, Godfrey of Marsan, Count of Squillace, and Robert of Cabane,
Count of Eboli; the two women talking in a low voice with the eager
gesticulations are Catherine of Tarentum, Empress of Constantinople, and