Sigismund went and knelt at the feet of her whom he had ever believed his mother, and earnestly begged her blessing and continued affection.  The tears streamed from Marguerite’s eyes, as she willingly bestowed the first, and promised never to withhold the last.

“Hast thou any of the trinkets or garments that were given thee with the child, or canst render an account of the place where they are still to be found?” demanded the Doge, whose whole mind was too deeply set on appeasing his doubts to listen to aught else.

“They are all here in the convent.  The gold has been fairly committed to Sigismund, to form his equipment as a soldier.  The child was kept apart, receiving such education as a learned priest could give till of an age to serve, and then I sent him to bear arms in Italy, which I knew to be the country of his birth, though I never knew to what Prince his allegiance was due.  The time had now come when I thought it due to the youth to let him know the real nature of the tie between us; but I shrank from paining Marguerite and myself, and I even did his heart the credit to believe that he would rather belong to us, humble and despised though we be, than find himself a nameless outcast, without home, country, or parentage.  It was necessary, however, to speak, and it was my purpose to reveal the truth, here at the convent, in the presence of Christine.  For this reason, and to enable Sigismund to make inquiries for his family, the effects received from the unhappy criminal with the child were placed among his baggage secretly.  They are, at this moment, on the mountain.”

The venerable old prince trembled violently; for, with the intense feeling of one who dreaded that his dearest hopes might yet be disappointed, he feared, while he most wished, to consult these mute but veracious witnesses.

“Let them be produced!—­let them be instantly produced and examined!” he whispered eagerly to those around him.  Then turning slowly to the immovable Maso, he demanded—­“And thou, man of falsehood and of blood! what dost thou reply to this clear and probable tale?”

Il Maledetto smiled, as if superior to a weakness that had blinded the others.  The expression of his countenance was filled with that look of calm superiority which certainty gives to the well-informed over the doubting and deceived.”

“I have to reply, Signore, and honored father,” he coolly answered, “that Balthazar hath right cleverly related a tale that hath been ingeniously devised.  That I am Bartolo, I repeat to thee, can be proved by a hundred living tongues in Italy.—­Thou best knowest who Bartolo Contini is, Doge of Genoa.’

“He speaks the truth,” returned the prince, dropping his head in disappointment.  “Oh!  Melchior, I have had but too sure proofs of what he intimates!  I have long been certain that this wretched Bartolo is my son, though never before have I been cursed with his presence.  Bad as I was taught to think him, my worst fears had not painted him as I now find the truth would warrant.”