"'Boy!' he exclaimed. 'They are upon me! Plunge yonder through the thicket, and let them hear you; you may draw off pursuit from your captain.'
"I obeyed, was followed, and taken."
"Then your generous act saved the chief?"
"It was a mere act of impulse," replied Raphael; "it deserved no praise, and won no gratitude. I was now a prisoner, bound and guarded. I was taken from one place to another, and brought before a tribunal of justice. There was little against me but bare suspicion, for no actual crime could be laid to my charge. I had, indeed, been seen in the company of banditti. I was known to be acquainted with Matteo. I had baffled the soldiers when they had believed that the blood-money for his capture was within their grasp. The last offense might be atoned for; I was offered freedom and reward, if I would betray the secret haunts of Matteo. Of course such treachery was not to be thought of.
"After tedious imprisonment and examinations before various authorities, I was condemned to six months' labor in the galleys, rather for obstinate silence than for any offense which could be proved."
"What!" exclaimed Horace. "Was not the remembrance of the faithful services of your heroic father sufficient to save his son from so harsh a sentence."
"No one knew my parentage," replied Raphael quickly; "no, no! Sunk as I was, disgraced, condemned, I jealously guarded the honor of my father's name as the one precious possession left me, which would never be tarnished by shame. It should never be said that the son of Raphael Goldoni had appeared as a criminal at the bar of justice!"
"Were you not in a state of misery on hearing your doom?" asked Horace.
"I was in a state of sullen despair. It seemed to me as if there were no help for me on earth or in heaven. I was an outcast, a wretch abandoned by my fellow-creatures. I accused them of cruelty and injustice; and, what was far worse, my soul rose in guilty rebellion against the decrees of Providence. I looked upon myself as a sufferer rather for the crimes of others than my own, forgetful that no circumstances could justify my compliance with what I had known to be evil.
"Sometimes, indeed, conscience, oft stifled, would make itself heard, and then the icy calm of despair was exchanged for a tempest of anguish, such as almost shook reason from its seat. I could no longer have recourse to the miserable refuge offered by pilgrimage or penance. Even the relief of confession was denied me, for I had never learned to go in simplicity of faith for pardon and absolution to Him who heareth in secret.