The Carmelite started, for the point of the question, and the tranquil tones of the speaker, had a strange effect in such an interview.
"Thou art not what I had supposed thee, Jacopo!" he answered. "Thy mind is not altogether obscured in darkness, and thy crimes have been committed against the consciousness of their enormity."
"I fear this is true, reverend monk."
"Thou must feel their weight in the poignancy of grief—in the—" Father Anselmo stopped, for a sob at that moment apprised them that they were not alone. Moving aside, in a little alarm, the action discovered the figure of the shrinking Gelsomina, who had entered the cell, favored by the keepers, and concealed by the robes of the Carmelite. Jacopo groaned when he beheld her form, and turning away, he leaned against the wall.
"Daughter, why art thou here—and who art thou?" demanded the monk.
"'Tis the child of the principal keeper," said Jacopo, perceiving that she was unable to answer, "one known to me, in my frequent adventures in this prison."
The eye of Father Anselmo wandered from one to the other. At first its expression was severe, and then, as it saw each countenance in turn, it became less unkind, until it softened at the exhibition of their mutual agony.
"This comes of human passions!" he said, in a tone between consolation and reproof. "Such are ever the fruits of crime."
"Father," said Jacopo, with earnestness, "I may deserve the word; but the angels in Heaven are scarce purer than this weeping girl!"
"I rejoice to hear it. I will believe thee, unfortunate man, and glad am I that thy soul is relieved from the sin of having corrupted one so youthful."