"My brother?" said Michel, in utter bewilderment, dropping his dagger. "He, my brother?" said the Piccinino, his weapon still within his grasp. "This extemporized relationship is most improbable, signora. I have always heard that Pier-Angelo's wife was very ugly, and I doubt if my father ever played tricks upon husbands who had no reason to be jealous. Your expedient is not at all ingenious! Farewell for the present, Michelangelo Lavoratori!" "I tell you that he is your brother!" repeated the princess, earnestly; "your father's son and not Pier-Angelo's; the son of a woman whom you cannot insult by your contempt, and who could not have listened to you without committing a crime and an act of madness. Do you not understand me?" "No, signora," said the Piccinino, with a shrug; "I cannot understand the fables that come to your mind at this moment to save your lover's life. If this poor boy is my father's son, so much the worse for him; for he has many other brothers beside myself, who do not amount to much, and whom I do not hesitate to strike over the head with the butt of my pistol when they fail in the obedience and respect they owe me. So, too, this new member of my family--the youngest of all, I am inclined to think--will be punished by my hand as he deserves; not in your presence, for I am not fond of seeing women in convulsions. But this pretty darling will not always be hidden in your bosom, signora, and I know where I shall find him at need!" "Have done with insulting me," rejoined Agatha, in a firm tone; "you cannot wound me, and, unless you are a coward, you should not speak thus to your father's wife." "My father's wife!" exclaimed the bandit, beginning to listen and to desire to hear. "My father was never married, signora! Do not make sport of me." "Your father was married to me, Carmelo, and, if you doubt it, you will find the authentic evidence in the archives of the convent of Mal Passo. Go and ask Fra Angelo. This young man's name is not Lavoratori; his name is Castro-Reale. He is the son--the only legitimate son--of Prince Cæsar de Castro-Reale." "Then you are my mother?" cried Michel, falling on his knees and embracing Agatha, with a sensation of terror, remorse and adoration all in one. "You know it," she said, pressing his face against her heaving breast. "Now, Carmelo, come and kill him in my arms; we will die together! But, after seeking to commit incest, you will commit fratricide!" The Piccinino, torn by a thousand conflicting sensations, folded his arms across his breast, and, leaning against the wall, gazed in silence at his brother and stepmother, as if he were still inclined to doubt the truth. Michel rose, walked toward him, and held out his hand.