u think it cold, unnatural, and unkind--is it not so?'

'If your gracious Highness would just condescend to say a word to
him--one word, that he might carry away in his heart for the rest of his
days.'

'Better have no memory of me,' sighed the Prince drearily. 'Oh, don't
say so, your Royal Highness; think what pride it will be to him yet, God
knows in what far-away country, to remember that he saw you once, that
he stood in your presence, and heard you speak to him.'

'It shall be as you wish, Frate; but I charge you once more to be sure
that he may not know with whom he is speaking.'

'By this holy Book,' said the Fra, with a gesture implying a vow of
secrecy.

'Go now; send him hither, and wait without till I send for you.'

The door had scarcely closed behind the friar when it opened again
to admit the entrance of the youth. The Prince turned his head, and,
whether it was the extreme poverty of the lad's appearance, more
striking from the ragged and torn condition of his dress, or that
something in Gerald's air and look impressed him painfully, he passed
his hand across his eyes and averted his glance from him.

'Come forward, my boy,' said he at last. 'How are you called?'

'Gerald Fitzgerald, Signor Conte,' said he, firmly but respectfully.

'You are Irish by birth?' said the Prince, in a voice slightly
tremulous.

'Yes, Signor Conte,' replied he, while he drew himself up with an air
that almost savoured of haughtiness.

'And your friends have destined you for the priesthood, it seems.'

'I never knew I had friends,' said the boy; 'I thought myself a sort of
castaway.'

'Why, you have just told me of your Irish blood--how knew you of that?'

'So long as I can remember I have heard that I was a Geraldine, and they
call me Irish in the college.'

There was a frank boldness in his manner, totally removed from the
slightest trace of rudeness or presumption, that already interested the
Prince, who now gazed long and steadily on him.

'Do I remind you of any one you ever saw or cared for, Signor Conte?'
asked the boy, with an accent of touching gentleness.

'That you do, child,' said he, laying his hand on the youth's shoulder,
while he passed the other across his eyes.

'I hope it was of none who ever gave you sorrow,' said the boy, who saw
the quivering motion of the lip that indicates deep grief.

Charles Edward now removed his hand, and turned away his head for some
seconds.

At last he aros