CHAPTER XIX.

"The letter, then, relates to the signorina. She is well?"

"Yes, she is well now. She is in our native Italy." Jackeymo raised his
eyes involuntarily towards the orange-trees, and the morning breeze swept
by and bore to him the odour of their blossoms.

"Those are sweet even here, with care," said he, pointing to the trees.
"I think I have said that before to the padrone."

But Riccabocca was now looking again at the letter, and did not notice
either the gesture or the remark of his servant. "My aunt is no more!"
said he, after a pause.

"We will pray for her soul!" answered Jackeymo, solemnly. "But she was
very old, and had been a long time ailing. Let it not grieve the padrone
too keenly: at that age, and with those infirmities, death comes as a
friend."

"Peace be to her dust!" returned the Italian. "If she had her faults, be
they now forgotten forever; and in the hour of my danger and distress she
sheltered my infant! That shelter is destroyed. This letter is from the
priest, her confessor. And the home of which my child is bereaved falls
to the inheritance of my enemy."

"Traitor!" muttered Jackeymo; and his right hand seemed to feel for the
weapon which the Italians of lower rank often openly wear in their
girdles.