Angela’s eyes opened wide.

“A miracle!  What do you mean by a miracle?”

“Santissima Madonna!  A miracle is always a miracle,” retorted her father testily, “A something out of the common, and an upsetting of the ordinary laws of nature.  Did your uncle tell you nothing of his visit to Rouen?”

“Nothing,” replied Angela, “Nothing but the story of Manuel.”

“Manuel?  Who is he?”

“The boy he has with him now.  Uncle Felix found him lost at night near the Cathedral of Rouen, and has taken him under his protection ever since.”

“Altro!  That is nothing!” said her father, “That is only one of Felix’s quixotic ideas.  There is no miracle in that.  But when a child is a cripple from babyhood, and our Felix cures him by one simple prayer, and makes him strong and well again—­Gran Dio!—­it is not remarkable that such news creates a stir at the Vatican.”

“But it cannot be true!” said Angela surprised, “Uncle Felix never said a word about it.  I am sure he knows nothing whatever of such a report!”

“Ebben!  We will ask him presently,”—­and the Prince raised himself stiffly and slowly out of his throne-like chair, “Personally I have considered Felix above any sort of priestly trickery; but after all, if he has an ambition for the Papacy, I do not see why he should not play for it.  Others do!”

“Oh, father!” cried Angela, “How can you think such a thing of Uncle Felix!  He is as nearly a saint as any mortal man can be!”

“So I always thought, child—­so I always thought!” replied the Prince, with a vexed air, “But to perform such a miracle of healing as to cure a child with a twisted spine and bent legs, by the mere utterance of a prayer!—­that is impossible!—­impossible!  It sounds like charlatanism—­not like Felix!”

As he spoke he straightened himself and stood upright, a tall, spare, elegant figure of a man,—­his dark complexioned face very much resembling a fine bronze cast of the Emperor Aurelius.  Angela rose too and stood beside him, and his always more or less defiant eyes slowly softened as he looked at her.

“You grow very like your mother,” he said, with just the faintest tremor in his voice—­“Ah, la mia Gita!”

A sigh that was like a groan broke from his lips, and Angela laid her head caressingly against his breast in silence.  He touched her soft hair tenderly.

“Very like your mother,” he repeated, “Very like!  But you will leave me soon, as she has left me,—­not for Heaven, no!—­but for that doubtful new life called marriage.  It is not doubtful when there is love—­love in both hearts;—­and if there is any difference at all, the love should be greater on the man’s side than on the woman’s!  Remember that, Angela mia, remember that!  The true lover is always spiritually on his knees before the woman he loves; not only in passion, but in worship—­in reverence!”

“And is not Florian so?” murmured Angela timidly.