He was the last Maramonte. His eyes swept down the long room, past Cesare—the patriot—to Giordano, hero of Montaperti.
His face, under its olive skin, paled, then flushed; his eyes were grave.
For he must hand on the torch ... he caught his breath, seeing Cydonia.
And a new reverence tinged his love. Not only sweetheart and wife but mother. And at the word he pictured her with a little golden-headed son, clasped within her loving arms.
He had that passionate affection the Italian—of all nations on earth—feels for his offspring and, looking up into his mother's lovely face, he shared his secret hope with her.
Then he started with a frown. For, like some unworthy ghost into that throng, centuries old, came the heavy form of Cadell.
This was the blood he chose to mix with that proud Maramonte strain!
It seemed to him, at his treachery, a silence fell upon the room; eyes turned with a cold stare, haughty faces sneered at him...
Cydonia's parent!—He saw him there with his bourgeois birth stamped upon him; heard again that grating voice, marked the coarse congested face.
For a moment he shrank from the tie.