"You are illegitimate?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You have good blood in your veins?"
"What is good blood?" I asked.
He laughed, then answered impressively.
"Good blood is something from which proud souls are made."
The day was clear, the sun shone in through the window, and Anthony sat entirely covered by its rays. Suddenly an unexpected thought flashed through my head and pierced my heart like the bite of a snake. I jumped from my chair and stared hard at the monk. He, too, arose, and I saw that he picked up a knife from the table and played with it, asking:
"What is the matter with you?"
"Are you not my father?" I asked him.
His face became drawn, immovable and blue, as if it were carved from ice. He half closed his eyes so that the light went out of them, and said, almost in a whisper: