She paused a moment, whilst we stared, Fra Gervasio white-faced and with
mouth that gaped in sheer horror.

"For years had he eluded the long arm of the pope's justice," she resumed.
"And during those years he had never ceased to plot and plan the overthrow
of the Pontifical dominion. He was blinded by his arrogance to think that
he could stand against the hosts of Heaven. His stubbornness in sin had
made him mad. Quem Deus vult perdere..." And she waved one of her
emaciated hands, leaving the quotation unfinished. "Heaven showed me the
way, chose me for Its instrument. I sent him word, offering him shelter
here at Mondolfo where none would look to find him, assuming it to be the
last place to which he would adventure. He was to have come when death
took him on the field of Perugia."

There was something here that I did not understand at all. And in like
case, it seemed, was Fra Gervasio, for he passed a hand over his brow, as
if to clear thence some veils that clogged his understanding.

"He was to have come?" he echoed. "To shelter?" he asked.

"Nay," said she quietly, "to death. The papal emissaries had knowledge of
it and would have been here to await him."

"You would have betrayed him?" Fra Gervasio's voice was hoarse, his eyes
were burning sombrely.

"I would have saved my son," said she, with quiet satisfaction, in a tone
that revealed how incontestably right she conceived herself to be.

He stood there, and he seemed taller and more gaunt than usual, for he had