"It is not the weapon that is lacking," answered Solomon, carrying his
hand to the hilt of a dagger that he had hidden in his breast.

"Then kill me, father," said Gabriel in a low tone, but with an
irresistible accent of persuasion and entreaty; "oh yes, I confess it
now, the executioner's hand frightens me. My Nisida, my poor Nisida, I
have seen her; she was here just now, as beautiful and as pale as the
Madonna Dolorosa; she smiled to hide from me her sufferings. She was
happy, poor girl, because she believed you away. Oh, how sweet it will
be to me to die by your hand! You gave me life; take it back, father,
since God will have it so. And Nisida will be saved. Oh, do not
hesitate! It would be a cowardice on the part of both of us; she is my
sister, she is your daughter."

And seeing that his powerful will had subjugated the old man, he said,
"Help! help, father!" and offered his breast to the blow. The poor
father lifted his hand to strike; but a mortal convulsion ran through all
his limbs; he fell into his son's arms, and both burst into tears.

"Poor father!" said Gabriel. "I ought to have foreseen that. Give me
that dagger and turn away; I am young and my arm will not tremble."

"Oh no!" returned Solomon solemnly, "no, my son, for then you would be a
suicide! Let your soul ascend to heaven pure! God will give me His
strength. Moreover, we have time yet."

And a last ray of hope shone in the eyes of the fisherman.

Then there passed in that dungeon one of those scenes that words can