“Peace!” said Manfred, sternly. “I must know more ere I am disposed to pardon. A Saint’s bastard may be no saint himself.”
“Injurious Lord!” said Theodore, “add not insult to cruelty. If I am this venerable man’s son, though no Prince, as thou art, know the blood that flows in my veins—”
“Yes,” said the Friar, interrupting him, “his blood is noble; nor is he that abject thing, my Lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son, and Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara. But alas! my Lord, what is blood! what is nobility! We are all reptiles, miserable, sinful creatures. It is piety alone that can distinguish us from the dust whence we sprung, and whither we must return.”
“Truce to your sermon,” said Manfred; “you forget you are no longer Friar Jerome, but the Count of Falconara. Let me know your history; you will have time to moralise hereafter, if you should not happen to obtain the grace of that sturdy criminal there.”
“Mother of God!” said the Friar, “is it possible my Lord can refuse a father the life of his only, his long-lost, child! Trample me, my Lord, scorn, afflict me, accept my life for his, but spare my son!”
“Thou canst feel, then,” said Manfred, “what it is to lose an only son! A little hour ago thou didst preach up resignation to me: my house, if fate so pleased, must perish—but the Count of Falconara—”
“Alas! my Lord,” said Jerome, “I confess I have offended; but aggravate not an old man’s sufferings! I boast not of my family, nor think of such vanities—it is nature, that pleads for this boy; it is the memory of the dear woman that bore him. Is she, Theodore, is she dead?”
“Her soul has long been with the blessed,” said Theodore.
“Oh! how?” cried Jerome, “tell me—no—she is happy! Thou art all my care now!—Most dread Lord! will you—will you grant me my poor boy’s life?”
“Return to thy convent,” answered Manfred; “conduct the Princess hither; obey me in what else thou knowest; and I promise thee the life of thy son.”