“Better than these unfortunate beings that you see,” replied the friar. His voice was feeble—hollow and changed as his person. His eye alone “had not lost its original brightness”—benevolence and charity appeared to have imparted to it a lustre superior to that which bodily weakness was gradually extinguishing.
“But you,” pursued he, “why are you here? Why do you thus come to brave the pestilence?”
“I have had it, thank Heaven! I come——in search of——Lucy.”
“Lucy! Is Lucy here?”
“Yes. At least I hope so.”
“Is she thy wife?”
“My dear father! alas! no, she is not my wife. Do you know nothing, then, of what has happened?”
“No, my son. Since God removed me from you, I have heard nothing. But now that he sends you to me, I wish much to know. And your banishment?”
“You know, then, what they did to me?”
“But you, what did you do?”