“But why do you call it a relic?”

“Mary so named it, not I. It is an amulet, and if it has any power, it derives it from the gray stone beneath the cross.  This stone is a draconite, taken, at the risk of life, from the head of a dragon in the country of the negroes.”

A half contemptuous smile curled the lips of the old man as he contemplated the talisman in silence.  At last he said:  “I remember, Signor Geronimo, to have read in Pliny curious details of the draconite and its extraordinary powers, but I also remember that the great naturalist forgets to tell us the inherent qualities of the stone.  Alas! signor, would you trust in this talisman, and believe that it could protect you against the dagger of the assassin?  The people of the South have a strange piety:  in their superstition they confound what is holy with things which owe their efficacy, if they possess any, to the conjurations of sorcerers.”

The young noble colored slightly, and replied:  “You are mistaken, sir, as far as I am concerned.  For my justification allow me to tell you that this amulet belonged to a pilgrim; that it rested one entire night of Good Friday upon the tomb of our Lord at Jerusalem; but I will be candid, and say to you that I do not consider it possessed of the power to preserve me from danger.  And yet I always wear it with the firm and unshaken conviction that it will protect me in a critical hour from some misfortune.”

“Perhaps it belonged to your deceased parents,” said Mr. Van de Werve, struck by the singular explanation of the young man.

“No, sir,” replied Geronimo; “this amulet is to me a cherished souvenir of a day upon which God gave me the grace to perform a good action.  I would willingly tell you how the amulet fell into my hands, and why I believe in its power to protect me, but it is a long story.”

“I would, nevertheless, be much pleased if you would satisfy my curiosity,” said the old noble.

“If you desire it,” replied Geronimo, “I will comply with your wishes.

“You know that five years ago, when I undertook for the first time the voyage from Lucca to Antwerp, I was made prisoner by Algerian pirates, and carried as a slave to Barbary.  I was sold to a Moorish lord, who made me work in the fields until my uncle should send the ransom which would restore me to liberty.  In the same field in which some light work was appointed me, I saw an old blind woman attached like a mule to a plough, and driven on by blows from a heavy stick.  She was a Christian slave, whose eyes had been put out in wanton cruelty.  I learned that she was an Italian by birth, a native of a small village in the environs of Porto Fiero, a seaport not far from Genoa.  She had no relatives who could pay her ransom, and she had consequently been fastened to the plough like a beast of burden until death should come to deliver her.  The frightful fate of this miserable slave so filled me with compassion, that I shed tears