heed to him. I would to God I had flung
back my head and told my mother--as he prompted me--that I was lord of
Mondolfo, and that Falcone must remain since I so willed it.

I strove to do so out of my love for him rather than out of any such
fine spirit as he sought to inspire in me. Had I succeeded I had
established my dominion, I had become arbiter of my fate; and how much
of misery, of anguish, and of sin might I not thereafter have been
spared!

The hour was crucial, though I knew it not. I stood at a parting of
ways; yet for lack of courage I hesitated to take the road to which so
invitingly he beckoned me.

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 voic