Roma's head had fallen into her bosom, which was heaving with an emotion she could not conceal.
"One day a letter came from Italy, telling him that a thousand men were waiting for him to lead them in an insurrection that was to dethrone an unrighteous king. It was the trick of a scoundrel who has since been paid the price of a hero's blood. I heard of this only lately—only to-night."
There was silence for a moment. David Rossi had put one arm over his eyes.
"Well?"
"He was enticed back from England to Italy; an English minister violated his correspondence with a friend, and communicated its contents to the Italian Government; he was betrayed into the hands of the police, and deported without trial."
"Was he never heard of again?"
"Once—only once—by the friend I speak about."
Roma felt dizzy, as if she were coming near to some deep places; but she could not stop—something compelled her to go on.
"Who was the friend?" she asked.
"One of his poor waifs—a boy who owed everything to him, and loved and revered him as a father—loves and reveres him still, and tries to follow in the path he trod."