Much was said in maxims and apophthegms of the purity and necessity of rigid impartiality in administering the affairs of life, but neither had attained his years and experience without obtaining glimpses of practical things, that taught them to foresee the impunity of Maso.  Too much violence would be done to a factitous and tottering edifice, were it known that a prince’s son was no better than one of the vilest, and the lingering feelings of paternity were certain at last to cast a shield before the offender.

The embarrassment and doubt attending such a state of things was happily, but quite unexpectedly, relieved by the interference of Balthazar.  The headsman, until this moment, had been a silent and attentive listener to all that passed; but now he pressed himself into the circle, and looking, in his quiet manner, from one to the other, he spoke with the assurance that the certainty of having important intelligence to impart, is apt to give even to the meekest, in the presence of those whom they habitually respect.

“This broken tale of Maso,” he said, “is removing a cloud that has lain, for near thirty years before my eyes.  Is it true, illustrious Doge, for such it appears is your princely state, that a son of your noble stock was stolen and kept in from your love, through the vindictive enmity of a rival?”

“True!—­alas, too true!  Would it had pleased the blessed Maria, who so cherished his mother, to call his spirit to Heaven, ere the curse befell him and me!”

“Your pardon, great Prince, if I press you with questions at a moment so painful.  But it is in your own interest.  Suffer that I ask in what year this calamity befell your family?”

The Signor Grimaldi signed for his friend to assume the office of answering these extraordinary interrogatories, while he buried his own venerable face in his cloak, to conceal his anguish from curious eyes.  Melchior de Willading regarded the headsman in surprise, and for an instant he was disposed to repel questions that seemed importunate; but the earnest countenance and mild, decent demeanor of Balthazar, overcame his repugnance to pursue the subject.

“The child was seized in the autumn of the year 1693,” he answered, his previous conferences with his friend having put him in possession of all the leading facts of the history.

“And his age?”

“Was near a twelvemonth.”

“Can you inform me what became of the profligate noble who committed this for robbery?”

“The fate of the Signore Pantaleone Serrani has never been truly known; though there is a dark rumor that he died in a brawl in our own Switzerland.  That he is dead, there is no cause to doubt.”

“And his person, noble Freiherr—­a description of his person is now only wanting to throw the light of a noon-day sun, on what has so long been night!”

“I knew the unlucky Signore Pantaleone in early youth.  At the time mentioned his years might have been thirty, his form was seemly and of middle height, his features bore the Italian outline, with the dark eye, swarthy skin and glossy hair of the climate.  More than this, with the exception of a finger lost in one of our affairs in Lombardy, I cannot say.”