“Well, in God’s name, what is death to me?  I meet it daily on the sea.  My greatest, my only torment is the pain that they are causing you.”

“And I, do you think, my Gabriel, that I only suffer in seeing you die?  Oh, it is but a parting for a few days; I shall soon go to join you.  But a darker sorrow weighs upon me.  I am strong, I am a man”.  He stopped, fearing that he had said too much; then drawing near to his son, he said in a tearful voice, “Forgive me, my Gabriel; I am the cause of your death.  I ought to have killed the prince with my own hand.  In our country, children and old men are not condemned to death.  I am over eighty years old; I should have been pardoned; they told me that when, with tears, I asked pardon for you; once more, forgive me, Gabriel; I thought my daughter was dead; I thought of nothing else; and besides, I did not know the law.”

“Father, father!” cried Gabriel, touched, “what are you saying?  I would have given my life a thousand times over to purchase one day of yours.  Since you are strong enough to be present at my last hour, fear not; you will not see me turn pale; your son will be worthy of you.”

“And he is to die, to die!” cried Solomon, striking his forehead in despair, and casting on the walls of the dungeon a look of fire that would fain have pierced them.

“I am resigned, father,” said Gabriel gently; did not Christ ascend the cross?”

“Yes,” murmured the old man in a muffled voice, “but He did not leave behind a sister dishonoured by His death.”

These words, which escaped the old fisherman in spite of himself, threw a sudden and terrible light into the soul of Gabriel.  For the first time he perceived all the infamous manner of his death:  the shameless populace crowding round the scaffold, the hateful hand of the executioner taking him by the Hair, and the drops of his blood besprinkling the white raiment of his sister and covering her with shame.

“Oh, if I could get a weapon!” cried Gabriel, his haggard eyes roaming around.

“It is not the weapon that is lacking,” answered Solomon, carrying his hand to the hilt of a dagger that he had hidden in his breast.

“Then kill me, father,” said Gabriel in a low tone, but with an irresistible accent of persuasion and entreaty; “oh yes, I confess it now, the executioner’s hand frightens me.  My Nisida, my poor Nisida, I have seen her; she was here just now, as beautiful and as pale as the Madonna Dolorosa; she smiled to hide from me her sufferings.  She was happy, poor girl, because she believed you away.  Oh, how sweet it will be to me to die by your hand!  You gave me life; take it back, father, since God will have it so.  And Nisida will be saved.  Oh, do not hesitate!  It would be a cowardice on the part of both of us; she is my sister, she is your daughter.”

And seeing that his powerful will had subjugated the old man, he said, “Help! help, father!” and offered his breast to the blow.  The poor father lifted his hand to strike; but a mortal convulsion ran through all his limbs; he fell into his son’s arms, and both burst into tears.