"We will again pray, my son."
The Carmelite and Jacopo kneeled side by side, the latter bowing his
head to the block, while the monk uttered a final appeal to the mercy of
the Deity. The former arose, but the latter continued in the suppliant
attitude. The monk was so full of holy thoughts that, forgetting his
former wishes, he was nearly content the prisoner should pass into the
fruition of that hope which elevated his own mind. The officer and
executioner drew near, the former touching the arm of Father Anselmo,
and pointing towards the distant dial.
"The moment is near," he whispered, more from habit than in any
tenderness to the prisoner.
The Carmelite turned instinctively towards the palace, forgetting in the
sudden impulse all but his sense of earthly justice. There were forms at
the windows, and he fancied a signal to stay the impending blow was
about to be given.
"Hold!" he exclaimed. "For the love of Maria of most pure memory, be not
too hasty!"
The exclamation was repeated by a shrill female voice, and then
Gelsomina, eluding every effort to arrest her, rushed through the
Dalmatians, and reached the group between the granite columns. Wonder
and curiosity agitated the multitude, and a deep murmur ran through the
square.
"'Tis a maniac!" cried one.
"'Tis a victim of his arts!" said another, for when men have a
reputation for any particular vice, the world seldom fails to attribute
all the rest.
Pages:
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538