“It is a wretched tale which I do hide from all; but ah! to thee it seems that I must tell it; for in thy face I read thou hast a noble soul.”
“A noble soul!”
“I thought myself the son of a poor fisherman, with whom I spent my early years. But one day came a noble stranger; he gave me money, a splendid steed, bright arms, and, best of all, a paper. It was my mother—it was my mother who had written it. The victim of a mighty man, she feared for both our lives, and so would hide herself from me. She bade me never seek her name; and to this hour never have I sought to learn it.”
“See here!” and he took it from the bosom of his dress; “it never leaveth me.”
“Perchance, Gennaro, she wept when she wrote it!”
“And have not I wept, too, my mother—O my mother! But methinks I see tears on thy face, lady.”
“Ah! yes, I weep for thee—for her.”
“For me! for her! Indeed, I think already that I love thee dearly.”
“Oh! ever love thy mother, youth; cling to her with all thy soul. Never think ill of her when thou dost doubt most strongly; think ever how she loves thee, and pity her, and hope that she may one day press thee to her heart.”