He said calmly: “I am unacquainted with that part of Italy.”
My heart grew cold and I was silent.
“You mistook me for a friend, I suppose?” he added.
“Yes,” I cried, “I mistook you for a friend;” and with that I fell on my knees by his bed and cried like a child.
Suddenly I felt a touch on my shoulder. “Egidio,” said he in a broken voice, “look up.”
I raised my eyes, and there was his old smile above me, and we clung to each other without a word. Presently, however, he drew back, and put me quietly aside.
“Sit over there, Egidio. My bones are like water and I am not good for much talking yet.”
“Let us wait, Roberto. Sleep now—we can talk tomorrow.”
“No. What I have to say must be said at once.” He examined me thoughtfully. “You have a parish here in New York?”
I assented.