For a youth of his character it was a timid knock, and produced no result.
Mariano was one who—in peculiar circumstances, like those in which at that time he found himself—might once in a way act with timidity, but he was not the man to act so twice. Finding that the first knock was useless, he hit the door a blow that caused the old house to resound. In a few seconds it was opened slightly, and the face of a beautiful girl in Jewish costume appeared.
If Mariano had been suddenly petrified he could not have stood more rigidly motionless; amazement sat enthroned on his countenance.
“Angela!”
“Signor Mariano!”
The words in each case were followed by a deep flush, and Angela retreated.
Of course Mariano advanced.
“Excuse—forgive me, signorina,” he exclaimed, taking her hand respectfully. “I did not know—of course I could not—how was it possible that—the fact is, I came to see a Jew, and—and—”
“I’ve found a jewel,” he might have said, but that didn’t seem to occur to him!
“Bacri—that’s his name!” continued Mariano. “Is Bacri within? I came to see him, but—”