"Oh,
Maddalena! my child--my only child!"
Reiterating these words again and again, he leaned his head
against the partition and burst into tears. Sordid and coarse as
his nature was, he really loved his daughter. All the heart he
had was in his statues and in her.
After the first burst of his grief was exhausted, he was recalled
to himself by a sensation as if some change had taken place in
the lighting of the studio. He looked up directly, and dimly
discerned the priest standing far down at the end of the room
nearest the door, with the lamp in his hand, eagerly looking at
something.
"Rocco!" he exclaimed, "Rocco, why have you taken the lamp away?
What are you doing there?"
There was no movement and no answer. Luca advanced a step or two,
and called again. "Rocco, what are you doing there?"
The priest heard this time, and came suddenly toward his brother,
with the lamp in his hand--so suddenly that Luca started.
"What is it?" he asked, in astonishment. "Gracious God, Rocco,
how pale you are!"
Still the priest never said a word. He put the lamp down on the
nearest table. Luca observed that his hand shook. He had never
seen his brother violently agitated before. When Rocco had
announced, but a few minutes ago, that Maddalena's life was
despaired of, it was in a voice which, though sorrowful, was
perfectly calm. What was the meaning of this sudden panic--this
strange, silent terror?
The priest observed that his brother was looking at him
earnestly.
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