"But what is this?" said a voice from the turret-door behind us.
"My son Camillo a prisoner, and in Genoa!"
We turned all, to see the Queen standing there, on the threshold. The Princess, suddenly pallid, shot a look at Paoli—a look which at once defied and implored him.
"It is true, dear mother," said she, steadying her voice.
"God help us all!" The Queen clasped her hands. "The Genoese have no pity."
"Let your Majesty be reassured," said Paoli, slowly, "The Genoese, to be sure, have no pity; yet I can almost promise they will not proceed to extremities with your son. An enemy, madam, may have good reasons for negotiating; and although the Genoese Government would be delighted to break me on the wheel, yet, on some points, I can compel them to bargain with me."
He lifted his eyes. Mine were fixed on the Princess's, and I saw them thank him for the falsehood.
"Come, dear mother," she said, taking the Queen's hand.
"Though Camillo be in Genoa he can be reached."
"My poor boy was ever too rash."
"He can be reached," the Princess repeated—but I saw her wince— "and he shall be reached. General, I pray you to send these two men to me. And now, mother, let one sorrow be enough for a time. There is woman's work to be done upstairs; take me with you that I may help."
I did not understand these last words, but was left puzzling over them as the two passed through the turret-door and mounted the stairway. Nor did I remember the custom of the country until, ten minutes later, I heard their voices lifted together in the upper chamber intoning a lament over my father's body.