Casanova turned away, and for the moment wrapped himself in his cloak
once more, for though the sun was already piercing the morning mists,
the air was chill. Long shadows lay across the fields, cast by the
sparse trees on the hill-top. For an instant Casanova wondered whether
someone might not come down the path. Doubtless it was used only by
Olivo and the members of his household. It occurred to Casanova that
these were perhaps the last minutes of his life, and he was amazed at
his own calmness.

"M. Voltaire is a lucky fellow," came as a passing thought. But in truth
he had no interest in Voltaire, and he would have been glad at this
supreme moment to have been able to call up pleasanter images than that
of the old author's vulturine physiognomy. How strange it was that no
birds were piping in the trees over the wall. A change of weather must
be imminent. But what did the weather matter to him? He would rather
think of Marcolina, of the ecstasy he had enjoyed in her arms, and for
which he was now to pay dear. Dear? Cheap enough! A few years of an old
man's life hi penury and obscurity. What was there left for him to do in
the world? To poison Bragadino? Was it worth the trouble? Nothing was
worth the trouble. How few trees there were on the hill! He began to
count them. "Five ... seven ... ten.--Have I nothing better to do?"

"I am ready, Casanova."

Casanova turned smartly. Lorenzi stood before him, splendid in his
nakedness like a young god. No trace of meanness lingered in his face.
He seemed equally ready to kill or to die.

"What if I were to throw away my sword?" thought Casanova. "What if I
were to embrace him?" He slipped the cloak from his shoulders and stood