‘I have nothing to add to what your highness has ably said,’ replied Fabricius, rising from his seat. ‘I have already satisfied myself, by inquiries in Surrentum, that this woman is worthy, honest, and estimable in the opinion of the townspeople, and that her husband was likewise esteemed for the same qualities. Her word, therefore, is to be trusted, and it bears out the assertions of her misguided brother. I will tell you that some weeks ago I received a letter, saying that my grandchild was alive, and enclosing a piece of ribbon, which lies there before you. It is of unusual pattern. I went to the child’s room, and there found some more of the self‐same fabric. I had been imposed upon many times, but this was the first news I had heard, which seemed to strike to my heart with the weight of conviction. It was like a message from the grave. I was deeply moved. A few nights ago this man appeared before me in my house, and related what you have heard, with the exception of the vile trick by which my own life was attempted. He brought these things as proofs of his words. I can find no flaws in his evidence, and I accept it. So please you, Caesar, here are two slaves of my household who served the mother and grandmother of this child. The memory of the mother should be strong within them. Let them say. Look upon this maiden, Natta and Verrus, and answer truly, as your hearts tell you, if she recall the image of the dead Fabricia, my daughter, your mistress.’ ‘We have already looked upon her, master,’ replied Natta for both. ‘She is too near alike not to be the child of the dead Fabricia.’ ‘We are all agreed as to the marked resemblance to the gem,’ observed Caesar. ‘I am satisfied; my heart—everything tells me she is my Aurelia,’ said Fabricius fervently. ‘Then it becomes Afer’s turn, for which he burns, to refute the charge which has been brought against him,’ Tiberius continued. All eyes turned now upon the white, haggard visage of the knight, as he stood with tightly‐folded arms and compressed lips. ‘I will be brief. I deny it all—it is an infamous lie, invented to impose upon a credulous old man,’ said he. ‘You have taken an unfair advantage; it would have been, at least, manly to have warned me. You have your witnesses gathered, and paid to brazen it out. Once concoct a tale, and the rest is easily arranged. Now, however, I hear of this for the first time. I have nothing to defend me but my bare word. Who am I to find in this island to support me, when even my uncle will not turn an ear to me? Long and bitter experience cannot cure his credulity. He swallows a plausible tale now as eagerly as formerly, when the child was first missing—only, with the difference, that in his present delusion he has no scruple in allowing suspicions to be raised of his own flesh and blood.’