“Roberto!”
“We are men, Egidio; we both know what is coming. Milan is up already; and
there is a rumor that Charles Albert is moving. This year the spring rains
will be red in Italy.”
“In your absence not a breath shall touch her!”
“And if I never come back to defend her? They hate her as hell hates,
Egidio!--They kept repeating, ‘He is of her own age and youth draws
youth--.’ She is in their way, Egidio!”
“Consider, my son. They do not love her, perhaps; but why should they hate
her at such cost? She has given you no child.”
“No child!” He paused. “But what if--? She has ailed lately!” he cried, and
broke off to grapple with the stabbing thought.
“Roberto! Roberto!” I adjured him.
He jumped up and gripped my arm.
“Egidio! You believe in her?”
“She’s as pure as a lily on the altar!”
“Those eyes are wells of truth--and she has been like a daughter to
Marianna.--Egidio! do I look like an old man?”
“Quiet yourself, Roberto,” I entreated.
“Quiet myself? With this sting in my blood? A lover--and an Austrian lover!
Oh, Italy, Italy, my bride!”
“I stake my life on her truth,” I cried, “and who knows better than I? Has
her soul not lain before me like the bed of a clear stream?”
“And if what you saw there was only the reflection of your faith in her?”
“My son, I am a priest, and the priest penetrates to the soul as the angel
passed through the walls of Peter’s prison. I see the truth in her heart as
I see Christ in the host!”
“No, no, she is false!” he cried.