"The advice is no doubt good," replied Deodati; "but I cannot follow it. However guilty he may be, Geronimo is the only son of my deceased brother, whom I promised on his death-bed to watch over his child as if he were my own. Were I to abandon Geronimo entirely, he might be pushed by want and misery into the path of vice, perhaps of infamy. I will fulfil my duty to the last. If I love him less than formerly, at least I will save him from utter ruin." "What generosity!" exclaimed Mr. Van de Werve, in admiration. "You travel about in search of your nephew; you endanger your health. I foresee that he has but to speak to obtain pardon. And this great sacrifice, this magnanimous affection meets with such a return! It is frightful!" "No, sir," replied Deodati, "I will not pardon Geronimo. He will never be the same to me. Should I find him, or should he return to me, I will give him an income sufficient to keep him from want; that being done, I shall renounce the world and retire into a cloister, to await there in solitude and peace the time when it may please God to call me to himself." Mr. Van de Werve heard the street-door open, and said eagerly to the old merchant: "Signor, my daughter is at church and may return at any moment. I beg you not to speak of these things in her presence. Since the disappearance of Geronimo, she does nothing but weep and pray; no consideration alleviates her sorrow, nothing consoles her. If she were suddenly to lose all hope, it might cause her death. Heavens! Signor Turchi, what has happened to him?" He arose hastily and regarded in astonishment Simon Turchi, who entered and attempted to speak, but the words seemed to die upon his lips; for he stood trembling in the centre of the room, uttering unintelligible sounds. He was pale as death. Deodati arose also, and looked inquiringly at Turchi. The latter said, hurriedly: "I went to the house of the bailiff; he was not at home. He has been sent for, and he will be here immediately with his officers to accompany me to my garden. Oh! I have terrible news to communicate; but my mind wanders, I am losing my senses. I can tell nothing, particularly to you, Signor Deodati. Unhappy old man! Why did God reserve such a trial for your old age?" "Another misfortune? Speak, Simon, speak," said Deodati, in suppliant tones, and trembling from anxiety. Turchi fell, as if from exhaustion, upon a chair, and said, in a voice broken by sobs: "No, signor, ask me nothing; I could not break your heart by such stunning tidings. Alas! alas! who anticipated such a misfortune? My unhappy friend! my poor Geronimo!" A torrent of tears fell from his eyes, and while Deodati and Mr. Van de Werve begged him to tell the cause of big extraordinary emotion, he stammered: