"With failing hands, and eyes darkened by the shadow of death, I write this: Antonio Michele is your son. A very aged woman in Arsoli, who has been known since she suddenly appeared in this place, seven and twenty years ago, under the name of Antonia Falcone, but whose real name is Barbara Cecutti, and who was the mother of that Lazzaro who carried off your child from Pœstum, confessed this to me yesterday on her death-bed. She was found by the woman Michele in a ravine of the hills above Tivoli, on the verge of starvation, the stolen child beside her almost at the last gasp too, the wounded Lazzaro having breathed his last an hour before, during their flight. The woman Michele took pity upon these unfortunate creatures; the two women swore, on the Host, the one never to say that she had received the child from Barbara, and the other that she had given him to the Michele, so that Barbara might wear out the end of her life undisturbed by the police, and that Father Michele might make no inquiries after the parents of the child, whom his wife pretended to have found on the hills, exposed, like Moses on the shores of the Nile, by a poor girl whom she knew well, but whose name she would not mention. She had never had any children herself, though she had longed for them, and would not part with this one at any price. She carried her secret with her to the grave. Barbara Cecutti also is now no more; and you, my dear sir, receive this legacy from the dead at the hand of a dying man. The ways of God are wonderful! Let us praise His mercies! Amen!
"Ambrosio."
"Dear Sir,
"From the hand of a dying man, indeed! Our good brother Ambrosio--but just returned from his charitable mission--has this night departed, let us hope, into eternal blessedness, as no purgatory can be needed for him who was a saint on earth, I send you his bequest, and beg you to transfer to my poor convent the expression of your gratitude for the happy tidings which the grace of God has permitted you to receive by means of our brother who is now with Him.
"The Prior of the Convent of
"S. Michele at Tivoli,
"Eugenio."
Giraldi had just written the last word as the door flew open, admitting François, who wore a long cloak, below which appeared a pair of riding-boots. As he entered he exclaimed:
"Really, monsieur, I am ashamed to have doubted for an instant the luck of such a man! As I went into the courtyard, the Count's groom galloped in, who had been sent back to fetch a pocket-handkerchief which mademoiselle had forgotten! If it had only been an umbrella! In fact, monsieur, they wanted to get rid of the man; we shall hear nothing of either of them before to-morrow morning, you may take my word for it. I know the style of thing! I explained this to the man after a fashion, and he will let me have his horse. He says that neither man nor devil shall drive him out into this storm again."
"You must remain in my service, François," said Giraldi, laying his hand on the impudent fellow's shoulder. "And now--don't spare the horse."