A wave from the hand of the Bravo silenced him, and Jacopo,
struggling with himself for a moment, spoke.
"You have saved a soul from perdition, Signore," he said, smothering his
emotion. "If the happy knew how much power belongs to a single word of
kindness--a glance of feeling, when given to the despised, they would
not look so coldly on the miserable. This night must have been my last,
had you cast me off without pity--but you will hear my tale,
Signore--you will not scorn the confession of a Bravo?"
"I have promised. Be brief, for at this moment I have great care of my
own."
"Signore, I know not the whole of your wrongs, but they will not be less
likely to be redressed for this grace."
Jacopo made an effort to command himself, when he commenced his tale.
The course of the narrative does not require that we should accompany
this extraordinary man though the relation of the secrets he imparted to
Don Camillo. It is enough for our present purposes to say, that, as he
proceeded, the young Calabrian noble drew nearer to his side, and
listened with growing interest. The Duke of Sant' Agata scarcely
breathed, while his companion, with that energy of language and feeling
which marks Italian character, recounted his secret sorrows, and the
scenes in which he had been an actor. Long before he was done, Don
Camillo had forgotten his own private causes of concern, and, by the
time the tale was finished, every shade of disgust had given place to an
ungovernable expression of pity.
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