“Has there not been some fraud—­art thou not the dupe of some conspiracy of which money has been the object?”

The Doge shook his head, in a way to prove that he could not possibly flatter himself with such a hope.

“Never:  my offers of money have always been rejected.”

“Why should I take the gold of my father?” added Il Maledetto; “my own skill and courage more than suffice for my wants.”

The nature of the answer, and the composed demeanor of Maso, produced an embarrassing pause.

“Let the two stand forth and be confronted,” said the puzzled clavier at length; “nature often reveals the truth when the uttermost powers of man are at fault—­if either is the true child of the prince, we should find some resemblance to the father to support his claim.”

The test, though of doubtful virtue, was eagerly adopted, for the truth had now become so involved, as to excite a keen interest in all present.  The desire to explain the mystery was general, and the slightest means of attaining such an end became of a value proportionate to the difficulty of effecting the object.  Sigismund and Maso were placed beneath the lamp, where its light was strongest, and every eye turned eagerly to their countenances, in order to discover, or to fancy it discovered, some of those secret signs by which the mysterious affinities of nature are to be traced.  A more puzzling examination could not well have been essayed.  There was proof to give the victory to each of the pretenders, if such a term may be used with propriety as it concerns the passive Sigismund, and much to defeat the claims of the latter.  In the olive-colored tint, the dark, rich, rolling eye, and in stature, the advantage was altogether with Maso, whose outline of countenance and penetrating expression had also a resemblance to those of the Doge, so marked as to render it quite apparent to any who wished to find it.  The habits of the mariner had probably diminished the likeness, but it was too obviously there to escape detection.  That hardened and rude appearance, the consequence of exposure, which rendered it difficult to pronounce within ten years of his real age, contributed a little to conceal what might be termed the latent character of his countenance, but the features themselves were undeniably a rude copy of the more polished lineaments of the Prince.

The case was less clear as respects Sigismund.  The advantage of ruddy and vigorous youth rendered him such a resemblance of the Doge—­in the points where it existed—­as we find between the aged and those portraits which have been painted in their younger and happier days.  The bold outline was not unlike that of the noble features of the venerable Prince, but neither the eye, the hair, nor the complexion, had the hues of Italy.

“Thou seest,” said Maso, tauntingly, when the disappointed clavier admitted the differences in the latter particulars, “This is an imposition that will not pass.  I swear to you, as there is faith in man, and hope for the dying Christian, that so far as any know their parentage, I am the child of Gaetano Grimaldi, the present Doge of Genoa, and of no other man!  May the saints desert me!—­the blessed Mother of God be deaf to my prayers!—­and all men hunt me with their curses, if I say aught in this but holy truth!”