“Come hither Guiseppo, son of mine, let me look upon thy face. Ah! I remember well—her countenance lives again in thine. Boy, walk by my side, along this solitary chamber; I would converse with thee. Hast thou not oftentimes thought me a dark and stern old man?”
“My Lord, I have. The story of the soldier,—Rough Robin——”
“Name not the slave! Name him not. Have I not scattered his fable of lies, to the winds? Art not satisfied with the guilt of this—Adrian? Speak Guiseppo—have I not told thee a fair and truthful story?”
“I fear me—oh! Saints of Heaven—I fear me—that thy story is true!”
“Thou fearest that my story is true! Is this well Guiseppo? Wouldst rather thy father had been guilty!”
“My Lord—”
“‘My father’ would sound as well.”
“My father, then; an’ I may speak the name; I thank God from my very heart that I know thee guiltless. Yet I had much rather—the Saints witness my truth—I had much rather, this spot of blood were washed from the garments of all who bear the name of Albarone.”
“And do I not join in the wish! oh Guiseppo—Guiseppo Di Albarone, for I will call thee by thine own true name—look upon me, mark my face, gaze in mine eye! Thou hast known me for years, a man prematurely old, bent with age ere the sands of my manhood’s prime had fallen in the glass. Thus hast thou known me Guiseppo.”
“I have my Lord,—my father, and wondered at the cause.”