"And here is to our future peace," returned Giovanni, also drinking.
"We never really quarrel, Giovanni, do we?" said his father. Every trace of anger had vanished. His strong face beamed with an affectionate smile that was like the sun after a thunderstorm.
"No, indeed," answered his son, cordially. "We cannot afford to quarrel; there are only two of us left."
"That is what I always say," assented the Prince, beginning to eat the orange he had carefully peeled since he had grown calm. "If two men like you and me, my boy, can thoroughly agree, there is nothing we cannot accomplish; whereas if we go against each other—"
"Justitia non fit, coelum vero ruet," suggested Giovanni, in parody of the proverb.
"I am a little rusty in my Latin, Giovanni," said the old gentleman.
"Heaven is turned upside down, but justice is not done."
"No; one is never just when one is angry. But storms clear the sky, as they say up at Saracinesca."
"By the bye, have you heard whether that question of the timber has been settled yet?" asked Giovanni.
"Of course—I had forgotten. I will tell you all about it," answered his father, cheerfully. So they chatted peacefully for another half-hour; and no one would have thought, in looking at them, that such fierce passions had been roused, nor that one of them felt as though his death-warrant had been signed. When they separated, Giovanni went to his own rooms, and locked himself in.