The rhythm of the saddles ceased and the horses walked.
"Was that the place where you were brought up?" said Roma.
"Yes."
"And those were the people who sold you into slavery, so to speak?"
"Yes."
"And you could have confounded them with one word, and did not!"
"What was the use? Besides, they were not the first offenders."
"No; your father was more to blame. Don't you feel sometimes as if you
could hate him for what he has made you suffer?"
David Rossi shook his head. "I was saved from that bitterness by the
saint who saved me from so much besides. 'Don't try to find out who
your father is, David,' he said, 'and if by chance you ever do find out,
don't return evil for evil, and don't avenge yourself on the world.
By-and-bye the world will know you for what you are yourself, not for
what your father is. Perhaps your father is a bad man, perhaps he isn't.
Leave him to God!'"
"It's a terrible thing to think evil of one's own father, isn't it?"
said Roma, but David Rossi did not reply.
"And then--who knows?--perhaps some day you may discover that your
father deserved your love and pity after all."
"Perhaps!"
They had drawn up at another house under a thick clump of eucalyptus
trees. It was the Trappist Monastery of Tre Fontane. Silence was
everywhere in this home of silence.
They went up on to the roof. From that height the whole world around
seemed to be invaded by silence.
It was the silence of all sacred things, the silence of the mass; and
the undying paganism in the hearts of the two that stood there had its
eloquent silence also.
Roma was leaning on the parapet with David Rossi behind her, when
suddenly she began to weep. She wept violently and sobbed.
"What is it?" he asked, but she did not answer.
After a while she grew calm and dried her eyes, called herself foolish,
and began to laugh. But the heart-beats were too audible without saying
something, and at length she tried to speak.
"It was the poor boy at the inn," she said; "the sight of his sweet face
brought back a scene I had quite forgotten," and then, in a faltering
voice, turning her head away, she told him everything.
"It was in London, and my father had found a little Roman boy in the
streets on a winter's night, carrying a squirrel and playing an
accordion. He wore a tattered suit of velveteens, and that was all that
sheltered his little body from the cold. His fingers were frozen stiff,
and he fainted when they brought him into the house. After a while he
opened his eyes, and gazed around at the fire and the faces about him,
and seemed to be looking for something. It was his squirrel, and it was
frozen dead. But he grasped it tight and big tears rolled on to his
cheeks, and he raised himself as if to escape. He was too weak for that,
and my father comforted him and he lay still. That was when I saw him
first; and looking at the poor boy at the inn I thought ... I thought
perhaps he was another ... perhaps my little friend of long ago...."