“Doubt it not, father, they are the prayers of an angel!”

“And thy patient sister? thou hast not named her, son.”

“She, too, is well, father.”

“Has she ceased to blame herself for being the innocent cause of my sufferings?”

“She has.”

“Then she pines no longer over a blow that cannot be helped.”

The Bravo seemed to search for relief in the sympathizing eye of the pale and speechless Gelsomina.

“She has ceased to pine, father,” he uttered with compelled calmness.

“Thou hast ever loved thy sister, boy, with manly tenderness.  Thy heart is kind, as I have reason to know.  If God has given me grief, he has blessed me in my children!”

A long pause followed, during which the parent seemed to muse on the past, while the child rejoiced in the suspension of questions which harrowed his soul, since those of whom the other spoke had long been the victims of family misfortune.  The old man, for the prisoner was aged as well as feeble, turned his look on the still kneeling Bravo, thoughtfully, and continued.

“There is little hope of thy sister marrying, for none are fond of tying themselves to the proscribed.”

“She wishes it not—­she wishes it not—­she is happy, with my mother!”

“It is a happiness the Republic will not begrudge.  Is there no hope of our being able to meet soon?”

“Thou wilt meet my mother—­yes, that pleasure will come at last!”

“It is a weary time since any of my blood, but thee, have stood in my sight.  Kneel, that I may bless thee.”

Jacopo, who had risen under his mental torture, obeyed, and bowed his head in reverence to receive the paternal benediction.  The lips of the old man moved, and his eyes were turned to Heaven, but his language was of the heart, rather than that of the tongue.  Gelsomina bent her head to her bosom, and seemed to unite her prayers to those of the prisoner.  When the silent but solemn ceremony was ended, each made the customary sign of the cross, and Jacopo kissed the wrinkled hand of the captive.

“Hast thou hope for me?” the old man asked, this pious and grateful duty done.  “Do they still promise to let me look upon the sun again?”

“They do.  They promise fair.”

“Would that their words were true!  I have lived on hope for a weary time—­I have now been within these walls more than four years, methinks.”

Jacopo did not answer, for he knew that his father named the period only that he himself had been permitted to see him.

“I built upon the expectation that the Doge would remember his ancient servant, and open my prison-doors.”

Still Jacopo was silent, for the Doge, of whom the other spoke, had long been dead.

“And yet I should be grateful, for Maria and the saints have not forgotten me.  I am not without my pleasures in captivity.”

“God be praised!” returned the Bravo.  “In what manner dost thou ease thy sorrows, father?”