"Peace be to her dust!" returned the Italian. "If she had her faults, be they now forgotten forever; and in the hour of my danger and distress, she sheltered my infant! That shelter is destroyed. This letter is from the priest, her confessor. You know that she had nothing at her own disposal to bequeath to my child, and her property passes to the male heir--mine enemy." "Traitor!" muttered Jackeymo; and his right hand seemed to feel for the weapon which the Italians of lower rank often openly wear in their girdles. "The priest," resumed Riccabocca, calmly, "has rightly judged in removing my child as a guest from the house in which my enemy enters as lord." "And where is the Signorina?" "With that poor priest. See, Giacomo--here, here--this is her handwriting at the end of the letter--the first lines she ever yet traced to me." Jackeymo took off his hat, and looked reverently on the large characters of a child's writing. But large as they were, they seemed indistinct, for the paper was blistered with the child's tears; and on the place where they had not fallen, there was a round fresh moist stain of the tear that had dropped from the lids of the father. Riccabocca renewed, "The priest recommends a convent." "To the devil with the priest!" cried the servant; then, crossing himself rapidly, he added, "I did not mean that, Monsignore San Giacomo--forgive me! But your Excellency[5] does not think of making a nun of his only child!" "And yet why not?" said Riccabocca, mournfully; "what can I give her in the world? Is the land of the stranger a better refuge than the home of peace in her native clime?" "In the land of the stranger beats her father's heart!" "And if that beat were stilled, what then? Ill fares the life that a single death can bereave of all. In a convent at least (and the priest's influence can obtain her that asylum among her equals and amidst her sex) she is safe from trial and from penury--to her grave." "Penury! Just see how rich we shall be when we take those fields at Michaelmas." "_Pazzie!_" (follies) said Riccabocca, listlessly. "Are these suns more serene than ours, or the soil more fertile? Yet in our own Italy, saith the proverb, 'he who sows land reaps more care than corn.' It were different," continued the father, after a pause, and in a more irresolute tone, "if I had some independence, however small, to count on--nay, if among all my tribe of dainty relatives there were but one female who would accompany Violante to the exile's hearth--Ishmael had his Hagar. But how can we two rough-bearded men provide for all the nameless wants and cares of a frail female child? And she has been so delicately reared--the woman-child needs the fostering hand and tender eye of a woman."