the vengeance I shall surely inflict on so blasphemous and damnable a
heretic!"

Winding her arm tightly about Florence's waist, she
replied--"'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay;' and
though I have never injured you, Padre--even if I had, it ill becomes
a consecrated priest to utter such language, or so madly to give vent
to passion."

"Silence!" thundered the Padre, livid with rage; "I will compass
heaven and earth rather than you shall escape me."

"Come, Florry, this is no place for us now; even the churchyard is not
sacred. Come home."

"Florence, dare you curse your own father?" The girl's lips quivered,
but no sound came forth--she seemed stunned.

"You would usurp the prerogatives of Jehovah, Father Mazzolin; but
your threat is vain. You cannot bless or damn my uncle at will. How
dare you, guilty as you are, hold such impious language?"

For a moment he quailed before the calm, unflinching girl, then
seizing Florence's arm, hoarsely exclaimed: "One more chance I give
you. Florence, I am your brother--your father, my father. On his
death-bed he confessed his sins and discovered his son."

A deep groan burst from Florence's lips, and her slender frame
quivered like a reed in a wintry blast. The Padre laid his head on the
granite slab which covered the remains of Mr. Hamilton, and continued: