Cyrillon noted
it, and his dark eyes flashed, but he went on steadily,--
"And then I saw her die--she stretched her poor thin hard-working
hands out to God, and over and over again she muttered and moaned in
her fever the refrain of an old peasant song we have in Touraine,
'Oh, la tristesse d'avoir aime!' If you had heard her--if you had
seen her--if you had, or have a heart to feel, nerves to wrench, a
brain to rack, blood to be stung to frenzy, you would,--seeing your
mother perish thus,--have thought, that to kill the man who had made
such a wreck of a sweet pure life, would be a just, aye even a
virtuous deed! I thought so. But my intended vengeance was
frustrated--whether by the act of God, who can say? But the conduct
of the man whom I am now proud to call my father--"
"You have great cause for pride!" said Moretti sarcastically.
"I think I have"--said the young man, "In the close extremity of
death at my hands, he won my respect. He shall keep it. It will be
my glory now to show him what a son's love and pardon may be. If it
be true as I understand, that he is attacked by a disease which
needs must be fatal, his last hours will not be desolate! It may be
that I shall give him more comfort than Churches,--more confidence
than Creeds! It may be that the clasp of my hand in his may be a
better preparation for his meeting with God,--and my mother,--than
the touch of the Holy Oils in Extreme Unction!"
"Like all your accursed sect, you blaspheme the Sacraments"--
interrupted Moretti indignantly--"And in the very presence of one of
her chiefest Cardinals, you scorn the Church!"
Cyrillon gave a quick gesture of emphatic denial.
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