“Signore, you find me as the chances of a wild life have willed.  The world and I have been at loggerheads this many a year, and in trifling with its laws, I take my revenge of its abuse—­” warmly returned Il Maledetto, for his spirit began to be aroused.  “Thou bear’st hard upon me, Doge—­father—­or what thou wilt—­and I should be little worthy of my lineage, did I not meet thy charges as they are made.  Compare thine own career with mine, and let it be proclaimed by sound of trumpet if thou wilt, which hath most reason to be proud, and which to exult.  Thou wert reared in the hopes and honors of our name; thou passed thy youth in the pursuit of arms according to thy fancy, and when tired of change, and willing to narrow thy pleasures, thou looked about thee for a maiden to become the mother of thy successor; thou turned a wishing eye on one young, fair, and noble, but whose affections, as her faith, were solemnly, irretrievably plighted to another.”

The Doge shuddered and veiled his eye; but he eagerly interrupted Maso.

“Her kinsman was unworthy of her love,” he cried; “he was an outcast, and little better than thyself, unhappy boy, except in the chances of condition.”

“It matters not, Signore; God had not made you the arbiter of her fate.  In tempting her family by your greater riches, you crushed two hearts, and destroyed the hopes of your fellow-creatures.  In her was sacrificed an angel, mild and pure as this fair creature who is now listening so breathlessly to my words; in him a fierce untamed spirit, that had only the greater need of management, since it was as likely to go wrong as right.  Before your son was born, this unhappy rival, poor in hopes as in wealth, had become desperate; and the mother of your child sank a victim to her ceaseless regrets, at her own want of faith as much as for his follies.”

“Thy mother was deluded, Gaetano; she never knew the real qualities of her cousin, or a soul like hers would have lothed the wretch.”

“Signore, it matters not,” continued Il Maledetto, with a ruthless perseverance of intention, and a coolness of manner that would seem to merit the description which had just been given his spirit, that of possessing a hellish taint; “she loved him with a woman’s heart; and with a woman’s ingenuity and confidence, she ascribed his fall to despair for her loss.”

“Oh, Melchior!  Melchior! this is fearfully true!” groaned the Doge.

“It is so true, Signore, that it should be written on my mother’s tomb.  We are children of a fiery climate; the passions burn in our Italy like the hot sun that glows there.  When despair drove the disappointed lover to acts that rendered him an outlaw, the passage to revenge was short.  Your child was stolen, hid from your view, and cast upon the world under circumstances that left little doubt of his living in bitterness, and dying under the contempt, if not the curses, of his fellows.  All this, Signor Grimaldi, is the fruit of your own errors.  Had you respected the affections of an innocent girl, the sad consequences to yourself and me might have been avoided.”