“Poor father!” said Gabriel.  “I ought to have foreseen that.  Give me that dagger and turn away; I am young and my arm will not tremble.”

“Oh no!” returned Solomon solemnly, “no, my son, for then you would be a suicide!  Let your soul ascend to heaven pure!  God will give me His strength.  Moreover, we have time yet.”

And a last ray of hope shone in the eyes of the fisherman.

Then there passed in that dungeon one of those scenes that words can never reproduce.  The poor father sat down on the straw at his son’s side and laid his head gently upon his knees.  He smiled to him through his tears, as one smiles to a sick child; he passed his hand slowly through the silky curls of his hair, and asked him countless questions, intermingled with caresses.  In order to give him a distaste for this world he kept on talking to him of the other.  Then, with a sudden change, he questioned him minutely about all sorts of past matters.  Sometimes he stopped in alarm, and counted the beatings of his heart, which were hurriedly marking the passage of time.

“Tell me everything, my child; have you any desire, any wish that could be satisfied before you die?  Are you leaving any woman whom you loved secretly?  Everything we have left shall be hers.”

“I regret nothing on earth but you and my sister.  You are the only persons whom I have loved since my mother’s death.”

“Well, be comforted.  Your sister will be saved.”

“Oh, yes!  I shall die happy.”

“Do you forgive our enemies?”

“With all the strength of my heart.  I pray God to have mercy on the witnesses who accused me.  May He forgive me my sins!”

“How old is it that you will soon be?” the old man asked suddenly, for his reason was beginning to totter, and his memory had failed him.

“I was twenty-five on All Hallows’ Day.”

“True; it was a sad day, this year; you were in prison.”

“Do you remember how, five years ago, on that same day I got the prize in the regatta at Venice?”

“Tell me about that, my child.”

And he listened, his neck stretched forward, his mouth half open, his hands in his son’s.  A sound of steps came in from the corridor, and a dull knock was struck upon the door.  It was the fatal hour.  The poor father had forgotten it.

The priests had already begun to sing the death hymn; the executioner was ready, the procession had set out, when Solomon the fisherman appeared suddenly on the threshold of the prison, his eyes aflame and his brow radiant with the halo of the patriarchs.  The old man drew himself up to his full height, and raising in one hand the reddened knife, said in a sublime voice, “The sacrifice is fulfilled.  God did not send His angel to stay the hand of Abraham.”

The crowd carried him in triumph!

[The details of this case are recorded in the archives of the Criminal Court at Naples.  We have changed nothing in the age or position of the persons who appear in this narrative.  One of the most celebrated advocates at the Neapolitan bar secured the acquittal of the old man.]