Again Il Maledetto seemed laboring with some secret that struggled on his tongue.

“Speak,” continued the Prince of Genoa; for it was, in truth, that high functionary, who had journeyed incognito, in the hope of meeting his ancient friend at the sports of Vevey, “Speak, Maso, if thou hast aught serious to urge in favor of thyself; time presses, and the sight of one to whom I owe so much in this great jeopardy, without the power to aid him, grows painful.”

“Signor Doge, though deaf to pity, you cannot be deaf to nature.”

The countenance of the Doge became livid; his lips trembled even to the appearance of convulsions.

“Deal no longer in mystery, man of blood!” he said with energy.  “What is thy meaning?”

“I entreat your eccellenza to be calm.  Necessity forces me to speak; for, as you see, I stand between this revelation and the block—­I am Bartolo Contini!”

The groan that escaped the compressed lips of, the Doge, the manner in which he sank into a seat, and the hue of death that settled over his aged countenance, until it was more ghastly even than that of the unhappy victim of violence, drew all present, in wonder and alarm, around his chair.  Signing for those who pressed upon him to give way, the Prince sat gazing at Maso, with eyes that appeared ready to burst from their sockets.

“Thou Bartolomeo!” he uttered huskily, as if horror had frozen his voice.

“I am Bartolo, Signore, and no other.  He who goes through many scenes hath occasion for many names.  Even your Highness travels at times under a cloud.”

The Doge continued to stare on the speaker with the fixedness of regard that one might be supposed to fasten on a creature of unearthly existence.

“Melchior,” he said slowly, turning his eyes from one to the other of the forms that filled them, for Sigismund had advanced to the side of Maso, in kind concern for the old man’s condition,—­“Melchior, we are but feeble and miserable creatures in the hand of one who looks upon the proudest and happiest of us, as we look upon the worm that crawls the earth!  What are hope, and honor, and our fondest love, in the great train of events that time heaves from its womb, bringing forth to our confusion?  Are we proud? fortune revenges itself for our want of humility by its scorn.  Are we happy? it is but the calm that precedes the storm.  Are we great? it is but to lead us into abuses that will justify our fall.  Are we honored stains tarnish our good names, in spite of all our care!”

“He who puts his trust in the Son of Maria need never despair!” whispered the worthy clavier touched nearly to tears by the sudden distress of one whom he had learned to respect.  “Let the fortunes of the world pass away, or change as they will, his chastening love outliveth time!”

The Signor Grimaldi, for, though the elected of Genoa, such was in truth the family name of the Doge, turned his vacant gaze for an instant on the Augustine, but it soon reverted to the forms and faces of Maso and Sigismund, who still stood before him, filling his thoughts even more than his sight.