“The brutes!” Frank exclaimed passionately. “Here, men, take this poor fellow out to the courtyard, and remain with him: I will ask the general presently what had best be done with him. Are the others like this?” he asked the officer, with a thrill of fear that overpowered the hope that he had lately been feeling.
“One of them is silent, and seldom speaks, but he is, I believe, quite sensible; the other two are well. The man we shall next see is perfectly so; he never speaks to us, but when alone here, or when upon the wall for exercise, he talks incessantly to himself: sometimes in Italian; sometimes, as one of the officers who understands that language says, in English; sometimes in what I have heard our priests say is Latin; sometimes in other languages.”
“Before you open the door, tell me what age he is,” Frank asked, in a low strained voice.
“I should say that he was about sixty, signor; he has been here nearly three years,” the man said.
“Now open the door.”
Frank entered almost timidly. A tall man rose from a palette, which was the sole article of furniture in the room.
“Is it treason, lieutenant,” he asked quietly, “to ask what has been going on?”
Frank with an exclamation of joy stepped forward: “Grandfather,” he said, “thank God I have found you!”
The prisoner started, looked at him searchingly, and exclaimed, “Frank! yes, it is Frank: is this a miracle, or am I dreaming?”
“Neither, grandfather. Garibaldi has landed; we have taken the castle, and, thank God, you are free.”