“Have you heard anything of our poor child?” he asked. “Tell me the truth! tell me the truth at once!”
“Hush! compose yourself. I have heard,” said Father Rocco, in low, mournful tones.
Luca tightened his hold on the priest’s arm, and looked into his face with breathless, speechless eagerness.
“Compose yourself,” repeated Father Rocco. “Compose yourself to hear the worst. My poor Luca, the doctors have given up all hope.”
Luca dropped his brother’s arm with a groan of despair. “Oh, Maddalena! my child—my only child!”
Reiterating these words again and again, he leaned his head against the partition and burst into tears. Sordid and coarse as his nature was, he really loved his daughter. All the heart he had was in his statues and in her.
After the first burst of his grief was exhausted, he was recalled to himself by a sensation as if some change had taken place in the lighting of the studio. He looked up directly, and dimly discerned the priest standing far down at the end of the room nearest the door, with the lamp in his hand, eagerly looking at something.
“Rocco!” he exclaimed, “Rocco, why have you taken the lamp away? What are you doing there?”
There was no movement and no answer. Luca advanced a step or two, and called again. “Rocco, what are you doing there?”
The priest heard this time, and came suddenly toward his brother, with the lamp in his hand—so suddenly that Luca started.