"Name them, Signor Barone;--for the love of the saints, and the blessed
virgin, name them, I beseech you!"

A little amazed at the eagerness of the other. Melchior de Willading
earnestly regarded his furrowed face; and, for an instant, an expression
like incertitude crossed his own features.

"Nothing would be easier, Signore, than to name many. The first in my
memory, as he has always been the first in my love, is Gaetano Grimaldi,
of whom, I doubt not, both of you have often heard?"

"We have, we have! That is--yes, I think we may say, Marcelli, that we
have often heard of him, and not unfavorably. Well, what of this
Grimaldi?"

"Signore, the desire to converse of your noble townsman is natural, but
were I to yield to my wishes to speak of Gaetano, I fear the honest
Baptiste might have reason to complain."

"To the devil with Baptiste and his bark! Melchior,--my good
Melchior!--dearest, dearest Melchior! hast thou indeed forgotten me?"

Here the Genoese opened wide his arms, and stood ready to receive the
embrace of his friend. The Baron de Willading was troubled, but he was
still so far from suspecting the real fact, that he could not have easily
told the reason why. He gazed wistfully at the working features of the
fine old man who stood before him, and though memory seemed to flit around
the truth, it was in gleams so transient as completely to baffle his
wishes.