The door
of the middle room was not shut, and barely ajar. Against the sill of the
door, on the brown and white mosaic pavement of the gallery, a glint of
color caught my eye. I stooped and picked up a fine uncut emerald, one of
Falco's chief treasures.
A qualm of apprehension shot through me. I pushed the door, entered and
swept the room with a glance. A confusion of jewel-trays cluttered the
floor, no sign of Falco. Nor was he in the left-hand room, which had been
similarly rifled.
But, when I turned and peered through the right-hand inner door I saw,
across the marble center-table, horridly sprawled, what I instantly knew
for his corpse, so unmistakably did the head hang loose, the arms dangle,
the legs trail: he was manifestly a corpse, even without sight of the
dagger-hilt projecting from his back.
I rushed to him and touched him.
He was yet warm, the blood still trickled from about the dagger, driven
deep under the left shoulder blade, slanting upwards, the very stroke
Agathemer had drilled me in early in our flight, the stroke with which I
had slaughtered two of the five bullies at Nona's hut!
I plucked out the dagger, gazing at it in horror.
As I did so I heard footsteps behind me and turned to face Casperius
Asellio, and Vespronius Lustralis, two of the most persistent of the
toadies who hung about Falco, both of whom hated me consumedly.
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