ing amid risks, and who takes his
revenge of the authorities by railing at them when defeated, and in
laughing at them when in success."

"Young man, thou hast in thee the materials of a better life!"

"Signore, this may be true," answered Maso, whose countenance again grew
dark; "we boast of being the lords of the creation, but the bark of poor
Baptista was not less master of its movements, in the late gust, than we
are masters of our fortunes. Signor Grimaldi, I have in me the materials
that make a man; but the laws, and the opinions, and the accursed strife
of men, have left me what I am. For the first fifteen years of my career,
the church was to be my stepping-stone to a cardinal's hat or a fat
priory; but the briny sea-water washed out the necessary unction."

"Thou art better born than thou seemest--thou hast friends who should be
grieved at this?"

The eye of Maso flashed, but he bent it aside, as if bearing down, by the
force of an indomitable will, some sudden and fierce impulse.

"I was born of woman!" he said, with singular emphasis.

"And thy mother--is she not pained at thy present course--does she know of
thy career?"

The haggard smile to which this question gave birth induced the Genoese to
regret that he had put it. Maso evidently struggled to subdue some feeling
which harrowed his very soul, and his success was owing to such a command
of himself as men rarely obtain.

"She is dead," he answered, huskily; "she is a saint with the angels. Had
she lived, I should never have been a mariner, and--and--" laying his hand
on his throat, as if to keep down the sense of suffocation, he smiled, and
added, laughingly,--"ay, and the good Winkelried would have been a
wreck."

"Maso, thou must come to me at Genoa. I must see more of thee, and
question thee further of thy fortunes. A fair spirit has been perverted in
thy fall, and the friendly aid of one who is not without influence may
still restore its tone."

The Signor Grimaldi spoke warmly, like one who sincerely felt regret, and
his voice had all the melancholy and earnestness of such a sentiment. The
truculent nature of Maso was touched by this show of interest, and a
multitude of fierce passions were at once subdued. He approached the noble
Genoese, and respectfully took his hand.

"Pardon the freedom, Signore," he said more mildly, intently regarding the
wrinkled and attenuated fingers, with the map-like tracery of veins, that
he held in his own