“Hear me, Renzo; I can tell you nothing, because—I know nothing. But I can assure you my master would not wrong you or any one; and he is not to blame.”
“Who then is to blame?” asked Renzo, carelessly, but listening intently for a reply.
“I have told you already I know nothing. But I may be allowed to speak in defence of my master; poor man! if he has erred, it has been through too great kindness. There are in this world men who are overpowerful, knavish, and who fear not God.”
“Overpowerful! knavish!” thought Renzo; “these cannot be his superiors.”—“Come,” said he, with difficulty concealing his increasing agitation, “come, tell me who it is.”
“Ah! you would persuade me to speak, and I must not, because—I know nothing. I will keep silence as faithfully as if I had promised to do so. You might put me to the torture, and you could not draw any thing from me. Adieu! it is lost time for both of us.”
Thus saying, she re-entered the garden hastily, and shut the gate. Renzo turned very softly, lest at the noise of his footsteps she might discern the road he took: when fairly beyond her hearing, he quickened his steps, and in a moment was at the door of Don Abbondio’s house; he entered, rushed towards the little parlour where he had left him, and finding him still there, approached him with a bold and furious manner.
“Eh! eh! what has happened now?” said Don Abbondio.
“Who is this powerful personage?” said Renzo, with the air of one resolved to obtain an explicit answer; “who is he that forbids me to marry Lucy?”
“What! what! what!” stammered Don Abbondio, turning pale with surprise. He arose from his chair, and made an effort to reach the door. But Renzo, who expected this movement, was upon his guard; and locking the door, he put the key in his pocket.
“Ah! will you speak now, Signor Curate? Every one knows the affair but myself; and, by heavens! I’ll know it too. Who is it, I say?”