"Dost thou deny me, de Willading?--dost thou refuse to own the friend of
thy youth--the companion of thy pleasures--the sharer of thy sorrows---
thy comrade in the wars--nay, more--thy confidant in a dearer tie?"

"None but Gaetano Grimaldi himself can claim these titles!" burst from the
lips of the trembling baron.

"Am I aught else?--am I not this Gaetano?--that Gaetano--thy
Gaetano,--old and very dear friend?"

"Thou Gaetano!" exclaimed the Bernois, recoiling a step, instead of
advancing to meet the eager embrace of the Genoese, whose impetuous
feelings were little cooled by time--"thou, the gallant, active, daring,
blooming Grimaldi! Signore, you trifle with an old man's affections."

"By the holy mass, I do not deceive thee! Ha, Marcelli, he is slow to
believe as ever, but fast and certain as the vow of a churchman when
convinced. If we are to distrust each other for a few wrinkles, thou wilt
find objections rising against thine own identity as well as against mine,
friend Melchior. I am none other than Gaetano--the Gaetano of thy
youth--the friend thou hast not seen these many long and weary years."

Recognition was slow in making its way in the mind of the Bernese.
Lineament after lineament, however, became successively known to him, and
most of all, the voice served to awaken long dormant recollections. But,
as heavy natures are said to have the least self-command when fairly
excited, so did the baron betray the most ungovernable emotion of the two,
when conviction came at last to confirm the words of his friend. He threw
himself on the neck of the Genoese, and the old man wept in a manner that