"Ask me not," replied the old man; "you were at the Chiesa Santa Maria Maggiore this morning. If those stones could speak, they might tell a fearful story."
"And that was the reason you did not dare to unclose your eyes within those holy precincts?—a film of blood floated between you and heaven."
The old man shuddered, but replied not.
"And the child?" I asked, after a pause; "what of their wretched offspring?"
"It was conveyed to England by a friend of its dead father. If he were alive, that boy would be about your age, signor."
"Indeed!" I said; a horrible suspicion flashing across my mind.
"After the Englishman's death," continued Cristofano, "my master began to treat me with a coldness and suspicion which increased daily. I was a burden to him, and he was resolved to rid himself of me. I spared him the trouble—quitted Rome—sought the mountains of the Abruzzi—and thence wandered to the fastnesses of Calabria, and became—no matter what. Here I am. Heaven's appointed minister of vengeance. The marchese dies to-night!"
"To-night! old man," I echoed, horror-stricken. "Add not crime to crime. If he has indeed been guilty of the foul offence you have named, let him be dealt with according to the offended laws of the country. Do not pervert the purposes of justice."
"Justice!" echoed Cristofano scornfully.
"Ay, justice. You are poor and powerless, but means may be found to aid you. I will assist the rightful course of vengeance."