“Your memory is good,” said Pascal. “My uncles gave an asylum to the assassin, and defended him when the officers came to arrest him: they were, therefore, looked upon as accomplices, and sent, my uncle Placido, to Favignana; my uncle Pietro, to Lipari; and my uncle Pépe, to Vulcano. As for myself, I was too young; and, although I was arrested, they gave me up again to my mother.”
“And what became of your mother?” asked Gemma.
“She died,” said Pascal, mournfully.
“Where?” asked Gemma.
“In the mountains between Pizzo di Goto and Nisi,” replied Pascal.
“Why did she leave Bauso?” inquired the countess.
“That every time we passed the castle,” said Pascal, “she might not see the head of her husband, nor I that of my father! Yes, she died without a physician, without a priest—she was buried in unholy ground, and I dug her grave. There, madame—you will pardon me, I trust—over the newly-turned earth I swore to avenge the wrongs of my family—of whom I, alone, remain—upon you, the only survivor of the family of the count. But I became enamoured of Teresa, and I left the mountains that I might not see my mother’s grave, towards which I felt myself perjured. I came down to the plain, and went to Bauso. I did more than that, for when I knew that Teresa had left the village to enter your service, I thought of entering that of the count. For a long time I felt repugnant at the idea; but my love for Teresa overcame every other feeling. I made up my mind to see you—I have seen you; here am I, without arms, and a suppliant before you, madame—before whom I ought only to appear as an enemy.”
“You must perceive,” said Gemma, “the prince cannot take into his service the son of a man who was hanged, and whose uncles are at the galleys.”
“Why not, madame?” asked Bruno, “if that man consents to forget that those punishments were unjustly inflicted?”
“Are you mad?” said the countess.