Christe eleison!—­brother dear—­
    Our liberator from all ill—­
  Strong in Thy virtue, free from fear,
    And be our help to virtue still.

  Christe eleison!  God and man—­
    Our only consolation here—­
  Oh! do not leave us ’neath the ban
    Of sorrow perilous and drear.

  Oh!  Kyrie, Father—­Kyrie Son—­
    Kyrie Spirit—­we adore
  The Triune God—­Thee, only One! 
   Grant we may praise Thee evermore!

Silence reigned in the room some moments after the last sound had died away, and then arose a murmur of admiration, and the young girl was overwhelmed with felicitations.

Whilst being thus complimented, Mary noticed Geronimo at a little distance from her.  Desirous, perhaps, of escaping the praises lavished upon her, or, it may be, yielding to a real desire, she approached the young man, drew him towards the piano, and insisted upon his singing an Italian aria.

Geronimo at first refused, but his uncle requested him to yield to the entreaties of the young girl.  Taking up a lute, he hastily tuned it, and sang the first word of the aria Italia! in such a tone of enthusiasm that it struck a responsive chord in every Italian heart.  The notes fell from his lips like a shower of brilliant stars; his bosom heaved, his eyes sparkled, and his rich tenor voice filling the hall produced an indescribable effect upon the auditors.  As his song proceeded, it seemed to gain in expression and vigor, and as he repeated the refrain Mia bella Italia! for the last time, his compatriots were so carried away by their enthusiasm that, forgetful of decorum, all, even the most aged, waved their caps, exclaiming: 

“Italia!  Italia!”

Tears stood in the eyes of many.

Geronimo was complimented by all present.  His uncle called him his beloved son, Mary spoke to him in the most flattering manner, and Mr. Van de Werve shook hands with him cordially.

As to Simon Turchi, he was overpowered; all he had just seen and heard was such a martyrdom; jealousy so gnawed his heart that he sank deeper and deeper into the abyss of hatred and vengeance.  He stood a few steps from Geronimo, his eyes downcast, and trembling with emotion.

No one noticed him.  Had he attracted attention, his friends would have supposed that, like the other Italians, he had been moved by the chant of his compatriot.

Turchi soon roused himself.  Like a man who has taken a sudden resolution, he walked up to Geronimo, smiled pleasantly, and threw his arms around his neck.

“Thanks, thanks, Geronimo!” he exclaimed.  “You have made me truly happy by giving me additional cause to be proud of my country.”

While embracing him, he also whispered: 

“Geronimo, I wish to speak privately to you this evening.  I will go to the garden presently; try to follow me; you will be pleased.”

Having said these words, he fell back as if to make way for Mr. Fugger, the rich banker, who wished to offer his congratulations.