knew of you. Then he said he knew all about you; that you were
an outcast, a left-handed member of his own family, an
adventurer--"

"It is finished, my friend," I said, interrupting him, and gazed
with all my soul upon the beautiful lady. Her face was as white
as Antonio's or that of my friend, or as my own must have been.
She strained her eyes at me fixedly; I saw the tears standing
still in them, and I knew the moment had come.

"This Caravacioli is my half-brother," I said.

Antonio laughed again. "Of what kind!"

Oh, he went on so easily to his betrayal, not knowing the
United-Statesians and their sentiment, as I did.

"We had the same mother," I continued, as quietly as I could.
"Twenty years after this young--this somewhat young--Prince
was born she divorced his father, Caravacioli, and married a
poor poet, whose bust you can see on the Pincian in Rome, though
he died in the cheapest hotel in Sienna when my true brother and
I were children. This young Prince would have nothing to do with
my mother after her second marriage and--"

"Marriage!" Antonio laughed pleasantly again. He was admirable.
"This is an old tale which the hastiness of our American friend
has forced us to rehearse. The marriage was never recognized by
the Vatican, and there was not twenty years--"