Frank turned and ran towards his father. The latter rose from his seat.
“My boy, my dear lad!” he cried, as he held out his arms, “this is too much happiness!”
It was some minutes before either father or son could speak coherently; and fortunately, just as Frank placed his father in the chair, one of the attendants brought in a basin of clear soup, two cutlets, an omelette, and a bottle of wine, saying that the governor had sent them from his own table, with his compliments.
Captain Percival smiled faintly when the man left the room.
“It is my last meal in prison, and if it had been sent to me a week ago I should have declined to eat it, for I should have made sure that it was poisoned; however, as it is, I will take it with thankfulness.”
“Yes, and you must eat as much as you can,” Forli said. “You have got a drive before you: we shall take you straight up to Santa Lucia, where we have rooms; the mountain air has done wonders for Frank, who has had a touch of these marsh fevers. It would be difficult to find a place in Capua now, so the sooner you are out of it the better.”
Captain Percival took a mouthful or two of soup and then stopped.
“That won’t do, Leonard—that won’t do; you really must make an effort. Do it in Italian fashion: pour a glass of wine into it; if you will take that, I will let you off the meat.”
“I could not touch it whether you let me off or not. I have not touched meat for two years and a half, and I shall be some time taking to it again.”
He finished the soup, and then, upon the insistence of Signor Forli, took some of the omelette.