“But what?” I asked.
“Eccellenza, you have not lost your youth.”
I turned my head toward him again—he was looking at me in some alarm—he feared some outburst of anger.
“Well!” I said, calmly. “That is your idea, is it? and why?”
“Eccellenza, I saw you without your spectacles that day when you fought with the unfortunate Signor Ferrari. I watched you when you fired. Your eyes are beautiful and terrible—the eyes of a young man, though your hair is white.”
Quietly I took off my glasses and laid them on the table beside me.
“As you have seen me once without them, you can see me again,” I observed, gently. “I wear them for a special purpose. Here in Avellino the purpose does not hold. Thus far I confide in you. But beware how you betray my confidence.”
“Eccellenza!” cried Vincenzo, in truly pained accents, and with a grieved look.
I rose and laid my hand on his arm.
“There! I was wrong—forgive me. You are honest; you have served your country well enough to know the value of fidelity and duty. But when you say I have not lost my youth, you are wrong, Vincenzo! I have lost it—it has been killed within me by a great sorrow. The strength, the suppleness of limb, the brightness of eye these are mere outward things: but in the heart and soul are the chill and drear bitterness of deserted age. Nay, do not smile; I am in truth very old—so old that I tire of my length of days; yet again, not too old to appreciate your affection, amico, and”—here I forced a faint smile—“when I see the maiden Lilla, I will tell you frankly what I think of her.”