injustice that oppressed me, something of the unreasoning bigotry that
chained and fettered me, stood clear before my mental vision for the first
time. It warmed me again with the warmth of sullen indignation. I
returned her no answer beyond a curtly respectful invitation that she
should speak her mind, couched--as had been her reproof--in a single word
of address.

"Madonna?" I challenged, and emulating something of old Falcone's attitude,
I drew myself erect, flung back my head, and brought my eyes to the level
of her own by an effort of will such as I had never yet exerted.

It was, I think, the bravest thing I ever did. I felt, in doing it, as one
feels who has nerved himself to enter fire. And when the thing was done,
the ease of it surprised me. There followed no catastrophe such as I
expected. Before my glance, grown suddenly so very bold, her own eyes
drooped and fell away as was her habit. She spoke thereafter without
looking at me, in that cold, emotionless voice that was peculiar to her
always, the voice of one in whom the founts of all that is sweet and
tolerant and tender in life are for ever frozen.

"What are you doing with weapons, Agostino?" she asked me.

"As you see, madam mother, I am at practice," I answered, and out of the
corner of my eye I caught the grim approving twitch of old Falcone's lips.

"At practice?" she echoed, dully as one who does not understand. Then very
slowly she shook her sorrowful head. "Men practise what they must one day
perform, Agostino. To your books, then, and leave swords for bloody men,
nor ever let me see you again with weapons in your hands if you respect
me."