Feeling his life ebbing slowly away, he had caused Francesco to be summoned to his bedside. He could not die in peace with the blot upon his conscience, the blot from the womb of a woman,--the blot called Francesco. Ever since he had again set eyes on the youth, carefree and happy among his companions, the memory of his own sin had been present with him. The fear of punishment in the life to come increased with every day; the dread of damnation everlasting chased the slumber from his eyes, and the man who had defied the combined forces of the Caliph, trembled at the thought of his own last hour on earth. Vainly he had racked his brain for some method of atonement which would dispel the ever present fear of being barred from his seat in the Heaven of the Blessed, which would assure him immunity from the lake of everlasting fire. At last, like a revelation, it dawned upon him: clearly he saw his course. There was the one way,--there was no choice. A sacrifice must be made to save his soul, a sacrifice by one near and dear,--yet Gregorio Villani had no life claims upon any one, save his son. His son! And,--as according to the Scriptures the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children even unto the third generation and the fourth,--why, according to divine permission, might not the son be requested to take and bear the consequences of his father's sin? Francesco stood by his father's side, glad that the decisive moment had come at last, trusting that his gloomy forebodings might be dispelled. Gregorio Villani was looking at him in silence, with fearful eyes and slightly parted, expectant lips. Finally, lifting his hand, the old man pointed to a wooden settle. Francesco understood, and, placing it near the bed, seated himself thereon, fixing his eyes on his father's face. The elder Villani found it difficult to begin. Finally, with a tremor in his tone, but with desperate intensity, he said: "Francesco--do you remember our converse at Avellino?" The youth nodded. He seemed to have anticipated a similar preliminary. "You were not born in wedlock," the old man continued. "So you told me," came the whispered reply. "It was a grievous sin!"-- Francesco bowed his head. There was a brief pause, then the elder Villani continued: "You are my child, Francesco, the single evidence of my swerving from the narrow path of righteousness. For years have I tried to atone for my guilt. Yet, neither priest nor pontiff would grant me absolution!"-- He paused and looked searchingly into Francesco's eyes. The youth's face showed no expression, save that of earnest attention. Taking breath again, the old man continued: "My hours are numbered. As I have bedded myself, so I lie. In another world I shall be judged! Judged! Francesco! Have you ever thought of death?" "I have not," was the answer given in absent tones.