Cicada gave a thick crow—merciful God! it was meant for a laugh—and began to screak and mumble some legend of a bird that, in difficult times, would bleed itself to feed its young—a most admirable lesson from Nature. The child laughed in his turn—poor little croupy mirth—and answered with a story: how the right and left hands once had a dispute as to which most loved and served the other, each asserting that he would cut himself off in proof of his devotion. Which being impracticable, it was decided that the right should sever the left, and the left the right; whereof the latter stood the test first without a wince. But, lo! when it came to the left’s turn, there was no right hand to carve him. ’Anan?’ croaked Cicada sourly. ’Why,’ said Bernardo, ’we will exchange the wine of our veins, if you like, to prove our mutual devotion; but, if I suck all thine first, there will be no suck left in thy lips to return the compliment on me.’ ’Need’st not take all; but enough to handicap thee, so that we start this backward journey on fair terms.’ ’Nay, it were so sweet, I ’d prove a glutton did I once begin. Cicca?’ ’My babe?’ ’Canst thou see Christ?’ ’Ay, in the white mirror of thy face.’ ’I see Him so plain. He stands behind thee now—a boy, mine own age. Nay, He puts His finger on His sweet lips, and smiles and goes. "Naughty," that means: "shall I stay to hear thee flatter me?" He blushes, like a boy, to be praised. He’s gone no further than the wall. Cicca, thy disguise was deep. I never thought thee beautiful before. O, what an unkind mother, to hide her beauty from her boy!’ ’Am I beautiful?’ ’Dost not know it? As the moon that rises on the night. It was night just now, and my soul was groping in the dark; and, lo! of a sudden thou wert looking down.’ ’Let it be night, I say!’ ’What is that in thy voice? I am so happy—always; only not when I think of Carlo. My dear, dear Carlo! Alas! what have they done with him? He will often think of us, and wonder where we are, and frown and gnaw his lip. If I could but hear him speak once more—cry "Bernardo!" in that voice that made one’s eyeballs crack like glass, and tickle in their veins. O, my sweet Carlo! Mother, have I failed in everything?’ ’Let be! Thou’lt kill me with thy prattle. Thy Christ remains behind. He’ll see thy seed is honoured in its fruits.’ ’Well, wilt thou kiss me good-night? I’m sleepy.’ He seemed to doze a good deal after that. But, about midnight, it might be, he suddenly sat up, and was singing strongly to his lute—a sweet, unearthly song, of home-returning and farewell. Cicada clung and held him, held to him, pierced all through with the awful rapture of that moment. ’Leave me not: wait for me!’ she whispered, sobbing. Suddenly, in a vibrating pause, a faint far cry was wafted to their ears:— ’Bernardo! Bernardo!’ The fingers tumbled on the lute, plucking its music into a tangle of wild discords. A string snapped.