offender.

The embarrassment and doubt attending such a state of things was happily,
but quite unexpectedly, relieved by the interference of Balthazar. The
headsman, until this moment, had been a silent and attentive listener to
all that passed; but now he pressed himself into the circle, and looking,
in his quiet manner, from one to the other, he spoke with the assurance
that the certainty of having important intelligence to impart, is apt to
give even to the meekest, in the presence of those whom they habitually
respect.

"This broken tale of Maso," he said, "is removing a cloud that has lain,
for near thirty years before my eyes. Is it true, illustrious Doge, for
such it appears is your princely state, that a son of your noble stock
was stolen and kept in from your love, through the vindictive enmity of a
rival?"

"True!--alas, too true! Would it had pleased the blessed Maria, who so
cherished his mother, to call his spirit to Heaven, ere the curse befell
him and me!"

"Your pardon, great Prince, if I press you with questions at a moment so
painful. But it is in your own interest. Suffer that I ask in what year
this calamity befell your family?"

The Signor Grimaldi signed for his friend to assume the office of
answering these extraordinary interrogatories, while he buried his own
venerable face in his cloak, to conceal his anguish from curious eyes.
Melchior de Willading regarded the headsman in surprise, and for an
instant he was disposed to repel questions that seemed importunate; but
the earnest countenance and mild, decent demeanor of Balthazar, overcame
his repugnance to pursue the subject.

"The child was seized in the autumn of the year 1693," he answered, his
previous conferences with his friend having put him in possession of all
the leading facts of the history.

"And his age?"

"Was near a twelvemonth."

"Can you inform me what became of the profligate noble who committed this
for robbery?"

"The fate of the Signore Pantaleone Serrani has never been truly known;
though there is a dark rumor that he died in a brawl in our own
Switzerland. That he is dead, there is no cause to doubt."

"And his person, noble Freiherr--a description of his person is now only
wanting to throw the light of a noon-day sun, on what has so long been
night!"

"I knew the unlucky Signore Pantaleone in early youth. At the time
mentioned his years might have been thirty, his form was seemly and of
middle height, his