“Name them, Signor Barone;—­for the love of the saints, and the blessed virgin, name them, I beseech you!”

A little amazed at the eagerness of the other.  Melchior de Willading earnestly regarded his furrowed face; and, for an instant, an expression like incertitude crossed his own features.

“Nothing would be easier, Signore, than to name many.  The first in my memory, as he has always been the first in my love, is Gaetano Grimaldi, of whom, I doubt not, both of you have often heard?”

“We have, we have!  That is—­yes, I think we may say, Marcelli, that we have often heard of him, and not unfavorably.  Well, what of this Grimaldi?”

“Signore, the desire to converse of your noble townsman is natural, but were I to yield to my wishes to speak of Gaetano, I fear the honest Baptiste might have reason to complain.”

“To the devil with Baptiste and his bark!  Melchior,—­my good Melchior!—­dearest, dearest Melchior! hast thou indeed forgotten me?”

Here the Genoese opened wide his arms, and stood ready to receive the embrace of his friend.  The Baron de Willading was troubled, but he was still so far from suspecting the real fact, that he could not have easily told the reason why.  He gazed wistfully at the working features of the fine old man who stood before him, and though memory seemed to flit around the truth, it was in gleams so transient as completely to baffle his wishes.

“Dost thou deny me, de Willading?—­dost thou refuse to own the friend of thy youth—­the companion of thy pleasures—­the sharer of thy sorrows—–­ thy comrade in the wars—­nay, more—­thy confidant in a dearer tie?”

“None but Gaetano Grimaldi himself can claim these titles!” burst from the lips of the trembling baron.

“Am I aught else?—­am I not this Gaetano?—­that Gaetano—­thy Gaetano,—­old and very dear friend?”

“Thou Gaetano!” exclaimed the Bernois, recoiling a step, instead of advancing to meet the eager embrace of the Genoese, whose impetuous feelings were little cooled by time—­“thou, the gallant, active, daring, blooming Grimaldi!  Signore, you trifle with an old man’s affections.”

“By the holy mass, I do not deceive thee!  Ha, Marcelli, he is slow to believe as ever, but fast and certain as the vow of a churchman when convinced.  If we are to distrust each other for a few wrinkles, thou wilt find objections rising against thine own identity as well as against mine, friend Melchior.  I am none other than Gaetano—­the Gaetano of thy youth—­the friend thou hast not seen these many long and weary years.”

Recognition was slow in making its way in the mind of the Bernese.  Lineament after lineament, however, became successively known to him, and most of all, the voice served to awaken long dormant recollections.  But, as heavy natures are said to have the least self-command when fairly excited, so did the baron betray the most ungovernable emotion of the two, when conviction came at last to confirm the words of his friend.  He threw himself on the neck of the Genoese, and the old man wept in a manner that caused him to withdraw aside, in order to conceal the tears which had so suddenly and profusely broken from fountains that he had long thought nearly dried.