"Monsignore Barone," cried the old major, in a trembling voice; "for the love of the blessed Madonna, spare my daughter! By the head of the Pope!—by the bones of the Saints!—by God himself!—I swear to you she is innocent. The child that is unborn—yea, the beatified Mary herself was not more pure. ’T is my daughter," he added, in a bewildered manner; "O, the little creature I have nurtured from infancy—and to perish thus! ’T is my daughter—my child—the last of them—she—pity me, Signor Barone—you are very good—her mother was slain by a cannon-ball at Altamurra—my arms were around her when her soul went up to her Redeemer. My daughter is pure—innocent—innocent as Madonna!" "Poor man! you blaspheme," said the barone. "Spare her, signor illustrissimo—have mercy: it is good to do so, and pleasant to the eye of Heaven. Think how you may one day crave it at the throne of grace, when the deeds of this hour will stand recorded against you in letters of fire. Spare her, for my sake! Remember all I have endured and done for my country. Behold these scars gained when Macdonald was driven from Terracina: her brothers have all followed their mother; they have gone before me to heaven—they died for Italy! Remember, monsignore, when Ettore Caraffa, the Count of Ruvo, took Andria by storm, and reduced it to ruins and ashes—remember how I saved your life at the risk of my own; how my boy, my dark-haired Battista—O, my God! the last of five—fought for you, and fell at your feet covered with wounds. I dragged you from the press, through flames and balls and bayonets—ha! ha!—you were then wounded, faint, and bleeding; but you promised, in a burst of gratitude, that if ever you could serve me you would do it, even to the peril of your life. _Yours_ I seek not; but the life that I gave—the life of my daughter." Gismondo uttered another sepulchral laugh. "The hour is now come, Signor Barone, and I call upon you to redeem the given promise—the life of my daughter." "Sancto Gennaro!" muttered the old barone, in a troubled voice, as he smote his forehead, "what an hour of shame and agony is this! Give me back the lives of two sons now lying dead in the trenches of Cassano, slain by the treachery of your daughter—hear you that, Maggiore Gismondo?—by her leaguing with the enemy!—Away with her to the verandah, and knot a halter, some of you. Povero voi! entreat me not, vile traitress!" he exclaimed, roughly shaking off the horror-stricken girl, who clasped his knees. "Most unhappily for thee, I remember, at this moment, but too poignantly the loss of my gallant sons. Forward, some of you: seize this unfortunate father; he must not see that which is to ensue. Away with him, and secure the daughter! I would to Heaven, some other than Di Bivona had been sent on this cursed hangman’s errand!" "My sabre! my sabre!" cried Gismondo, wildly rushing round the room, and dashing the chairs and tables right and left in his frenzy.