tightly about Florence's waist, she
replied--"'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay;' and
though I have never injured you, Padre--even if I had, it ill becomes
a consecrated priest to utter such language, or so madly to give vent
to passion."

"Silence!" thundered the Padre, livid with rage; "I will compass
heaven and earth rather than you shall escape me."

"Come, Florry, this is no place for us now; even the churchyard is not
sacred. Come home."

"Florence, dare you curse your own father?" The girl's lips quivered,
but no sound came forth--she seemed stunned.

"You would usurp the prerogatives of Jehovah, Father Mazzolin; but
your threat is vain. You cannot bless or damn my uncle at will. How
dare you, guilty as you are, hold such impious language?"

For a moment he quailed before the calm, unflinching girl, then
seizing Florence's arm, hoarsely exclaimed: "One more chance I give
you. Florence, I am your brother--your father, my father. On his
death-bed he confessed his sins and discovered his son."

A deep groan burst from Florence's lips, and her slender frame
quivered like a reed in a wintry blast. The Padre laid his head on the
granite slab which covered the remains of Mr. Hamilton, and continued:
"I call God in heaven, and all the saints to witness the truth of what
I say, and if I prove it not, may I sink into perdition. When your
father was yet young, he made the tour of Europe. Traveling in Italy,
he met at Florence a poor but beautiful girl; and she, struck, in
turn, by the handsome face of the stranger, left her humble home,
and listened to the voice of seduction. He remained five months at
Florence, and then suddenly left Italy for his native country, without
apprising the unfortunate woman of his intentions. Hatred succeeded to
love, and she vowed vengeance. That woman was my mother; and when ten
years had passed, she told me my parentage, and made me swear on the
altar of her patron saint that I would fulfil her vow of vengeance.
She died, and I became a priest of Rome, and in time was sent by
my order to Mexico, and thence here to assist my aged and infirm
predecessor. I had in my possession a miniature of my father, and no
sooner had I met him here than I recognized the base being who had
deserted my mother. I kept my peace; but ere he died, he confessed
that one sin--heavier than everything beside--weighed on his
conscience. In the agony and remorse of that hour my mother was
reveng