Before your son was born, this unhappy rival, poor in hopes as in
wealth, had become desperate; and the mother of your child sank a victim
to her ceaseless regrets, at her own want of faith as much as for his
follies."
"Thy mother was deluded, Gaetano; she never knew the real qualities of
her cousin, or a soul like hers would have lothed the wretch."
"Signore, it matters not," continued Il Maledetto, with a ruthless
perseverance of intention, and a coolness of manner that would seem to
merit the description which had just been given his spirit, that of
possessing a hellish taint; "she loved him with a woman's heart; and with
a woman's ingenuity and confidence, she ascribed his fall to despair for
her loss."
"Oh, Melchior! Melchior! this is fearfully true!" groaned the Doge.
"It is so true, Signore, that it should be written on my mother's tomb. We
are children of a fiery climate; the passions burn in our Italy like the
hot sun that glows there. When despair drove the disappointed lover to
acts that rendered him an outlaw, the passage to revenge was short.
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