“Just see how beautiful she is. I would like to win her love, and make her mine.”
“Always the same song,” replied Virgil. “You never so much as say, ‘I wish she were my daughter.’”
“She can never be my daughter,” answered the Emperor; “but as she is as poor as she is beautiful, she may very easily become my love. Honour is of no value to a poor person.”
“Nay,” replied Virgil, “when the poor know its value, it is worth as much to them as gold to you who are wealthy. [187b] And it is from your neglecting this that you have so long suffered, you knew not why [but an evil deed will burn, though you see no light and know not what it is]. For thus didst thou once betray a poor maid, and then cast her away without a further thought, not even bestowing aught upon her. And thou hadst a daughter, and her mother now lies ill and is well nigh to death. And it is this which afflicted thee [for every deed sends its light or shadow at some time unto the doer]. And now, if thou dost not repair this wrong, thou wilt never more know peace, and shalt ever sit in the chair of penitence.”
“And where is my daughter and her mother?” asked the Emperor.
“That girl is the daughter, and if you would see her mother, follow me,” replied Virgil.
When they entered the room where the dying woman lay, the Emperor recognised in her one whom he had loved.
“Truly,” he said, “she was the most beautiful to me of all.”
And he embraced and kissed her; she was of marvellous beauty; she asked him if he recognised their daughter.
“I recognise and acknowledge her,” he replied. “Wilt thou live?”