of men who had given princes, and popes, and cardinals, and captains
of condottieri, and patrons of art, and conquerors or revolted
provinces, to the Italy of old from the beginning of the thirteenth
century to the end of the sixteenth. For three hundred years the
Tor'alba had been lords there, owning all their eyes could reach from
mountain to sea; then after long siege the walled town and their
adjacent stronghold had fallen into the hands of hereditary foes
whose forces had been united against them. Fire and steel had done
their worst, and only a month-old child had escaped from the burning
Rocca, being saved in a boat laden with reeds at anchor in the river,
and hidden by a faithful vassal. The child had grown to manhood and
had lived to old age, leading a peasant's life on the banks of the
Edera; the name had been mutilated in common usage amongst those who
spoke only the dialect of the province, and for three more centuries
father and son had succeeded each other, working for their daily
bread where their ancestors had defied Borgia and Della Rovere, and
Feltrio, and Malatesta; the gaunt dark shade of the dismantled
citadel lying athwart their fields between them and the setting sun.

Should he tell Adone this or not?

Would the knowledge of his ancestry put a thorn in the boy's
contented heart? Would it act as a spur to higher things, or be
merely as the useless sting of a nettle?

Who could say?

Don Silverio remembered the gorgeous dreams of his own youth; and
what had been their issue?