It was almost two o’clock before the lustful monk ventured to bend his steps towards Antonia’s dwelling. It has been already mentioned that the abbey was at no great distance from the Strada di San Iago. He reached the house unobserved. Here he stopped, and hesitated for a moment. He reflected on the enormity of the crime, the consequences of a discovery, and the probability, after what had passed, of Elvira’s suspecting him to be her daughter’s ravisher: on the other hand it was suggested that she could do no more than suspect; that no proofs of his guilt could be produced; that it would seem impossible for the rape to have been committed without Antonia’s knowing when, where, or by whom; and finally, he believed that his fame was too firmly established to be shaken by the unsupported accusations of two unknown women. This latter argument was perfectly false: he knew not how uncertain is the air of popular applause, and that a moment suffices to make him today the detestation of the world, who yesterday was its idol. The result of the monk’s deliberations was that he should proceed in his enterprise. He ascended the steps leading to the house. No sooner did he touch the door with the silver myrtle, than it flew open, and presented him with a free passage. He entered, and the door closed after him of its own accord.