And then, before I could make any answer such as I desired, such as I strove to make, my mother spoke again, and by her tone, which had grown faltering and tearful--as was her wont in the old days when she ruled my father--she riveted anew the fetters I was endeavouring with all the strength of my poor young soul to snap. “Tell him, Agostino, that your will is as your mother's. Tell him so and come. I am waiting for you.” I stifled a groan, and let my arms fall limply to my sides. I was a weakling and contemptible. I realized it. And yet to-day when I look back I see how vast a strength I should have needed. I was but thirteen and of a spirit that had been cowed by her, and was held under her thrall. “I... I am sorry, Falcone,” I faltered, and there were tears in my eyes. I shrugged again--shrugged in token of my despair and grief and impotence--and I moved down the long room towards the door where my mother waited. I did not dare to bestow another look upon that poor broken old warrior, that faithful, lifelong servant, turned thus cruelly upon the world by a woman whom bigotry had sapped of all human feelings and a boy who was a coward masquerading under a great name. I heard his gasping sob, and the sound smote upon my heart and hurt me as if it had been iron. I had failed him. He must suffer more in the knowledge of my unworthiness to be called the son of that master whom he had worshipped than in the destitution that might await him. I reached the door. “My lord! My lord!” he cried after me despairingly. On the very threshold I stood arrested by that heartbroken cry of his. I half turned. “Falcone... “ I began. And then my mother's white hand fell upon my wrist. “Come, my son,” she said, once more impassive. Nervelessly I obeyed her, and as I passed out I heard Falcone's voice crying: “My lord, my lord! God help me, and God help you!” An hour later he had left the citadel, and on the stones of the courtyard lay ten golden ducats which he had scattered there, and which not one of the greedy grooms or serving-men could take courage to pick up, so fearful a curse had old Falcone laid upon that money when he cast it from him. CHAPTER III. THE PIETISTIC THRALL That evening my mother talked to me at longer length than I remember her ever to have done before. It may be that she feared lest Gino Falcone should have aroused in me notions which it was best to lull back at once into slumber. It may be that she, too, had felt something of the crucial quality of that moment in the armoury, just as she must have perceived my first hesitation to obey her slightest word, whence came her resolve to check this mutiny ere it should spread and become too big for her. We sat in the room that was called her private dining-room, but which, in fact, was all things to her save the chamber in which she slept.