He jumped up and gripped my arm.
“Egidio! You believe in her?”
“She’s as pure as a lily on the altar!”
“Those eyes are wells of truth—and she has been like a daughter to Marianna.—Egidio! do I look like an old man?”
“Quiet yourself, Roberto,” I entreated.
“Quiet myself? With this sting in my blood? A lover—and an Austrian lover! Oh, Italy, Italy, my bride!”
“I stake my life on her truth,” I cried, “and who knows better than I? Has her soul not lain before me like the bed of a clear stream?”
“And if what you saw there was only the reflection of your faith in her?”
“My son, I am a priest, and the priest penetrates to the soul as the angel passed through the walls of Peter’s prison. I see the truth in her heart as I see Christ in the host!”
“No, no, she is false!” he cried.