“Father!” said Jacopo with gentleness.

He got no answer.

“Father!” he repeated in a stronger voice.

The breathing became more audible, and then the captive spoke.

“Holy Maria hear my prayers!” he said feebly.  “God hath sent thee, son, to close my eyes!”

“Doth thy strength fail thee, father?”

“Greatly—­my time is come—­I had hoped to see the light of the day again to bless thy dear mother and sister—­God’s will be done!”

“They pray for us both, father.  They are beyond the power of the Senate.”

“Jacopo, I do not understand thee!”

“My mother and sister are dead; they are saints in Heaven, father.”

The old man groaned, for the tie of earth had not yet been entirely severed.  Jacopo heard him murmuring a prayer, and he knelt by the side of his pallet.

“This is a sudden blow!” whispered the old man.  “We depart together.”

“They are long dead, father.”

“Why hast thou not told me this before, Jacopo?”

“Hadst thou not sorrows enough without this?  Now that thou art about to join them, it will be pleasant to know that they have so long been happy.”

“And thou?—­thou wilt be alone—­give me thy hand—­poor Jacopo!”

The Bravo reached forth and took the feeble member of his parent; it was clammy and cold.

“Jacopo,” continued the captive, whose mind still sustained the body, “I have prayed thrice within the hour:  once for my own soul—­once for the peace of thy mother—­lastly, for thee!”

“Bless thee, father!—­bless thee!  I have need of prayer!”

“I have asked of God favor in thy behalf.  I have bethought me of all thy love and care—­of all thy devotion to my age and sufferings.  When thou wert a child, Jacopo, tenderness for thee tempted me to acts of weakness:  I trembled lest thy manhood might bring upon me pain and repentance.  Thou hast not known the yearnings of a parent for his offspring, but thou hast well requited them.  Kneel, Jacopo, that I may ask of God, once more, to remember thee.”

“I am at thy side, father.”

The old man raised his feeble arms, and with a voice whose force appeared reviving, he pronounced a fervent and solemn benediction.

“The blessing of a dying parent will sweeten thy life, Jacopo,” he added after a pause, “and give peace to thy last moments.”

“It will do the latter, father.”

A rude summons at the door interrupted them.

“Come forth, Jacopo,” said a keeper, “the Council seeks thee!”

Jacopo felt the convulsive start of his father, but he did not answer.

“Will they not leave thee—­a few minutes longer?” whispered the old man—­“I shall not keep thee long!”

The door opened, and a gleam from the lamp fell on the group in the cell.  The keeper had the humanity to shut it again, leaving all in obscurity.  The glimpse which Jacopo obtained, by that passing light, was the last look he had of his father’s countenance.  Death was fearfully on it, but the eyes were turned in unutterable affection on his own.