"Mr. Rossi," said Bruno, between a puff and a blow.
"Yes?"
"Have you tried the cylinder that came first?"
"Not yet."
"How's that, sir?"
"The man who brought it said the friend who had spoken into it was
dead." And then with a shiver, "It would be like a voice from the
grave--I doubt if I dare hear it."
"Like a ghost speaking to a man, certainly--especially if the friend was
a close one."
"He was the closest friend I ever had, Bruno--he was my father."
"Father?"
"Foster-father, anyway. For four years he clothed and fed and educated
me, and I was the same as his own son."
"Had he no children of his own?"
"One little daughter, no bigger than Joseph when I saw her last--Roma."
"Roma?"
"Yes, her father was a Liberal, and her name was Roma."
"What became of her?"
"When the doctor came to Italy on the errand which ended in his
imprisonment he gave her into the keeping of some Italian friends in
London. I was too young to take charge of her then. Besides, I left
England shortly afterward and went to America."
"Where is she now?" said Elena.
"When I returned to England ... she was dead."
"Well, there's nothing new under the sun of Rome--Donna Roma came from
London," said Bruno.
David Rossi felt the muscles of his face quiver.
"Her father was an exile in England, too, and when he came back on the
errand that ended in Elba, he gave her away to some people who treated
her badly--I've heard old Teapot, the Countess, say so when she's been
nagging her poor niece."
David Rossi breathed painfully.
"Strange if it should be the same," said Bruno.
"But Mr. Rossi's Roma is dead," said Elena.
"Ah, of course, certainly! What a fool I am!" said Bruno.
David Rossi had a sense of suffocation, and he went out on to the lead
flat.
VI
The Ave Maria was ringing from many church towers, and the golden day
was going down with the sun behind the dark outline of the dome of St.
Peter's, while the blue night was rising over the snow-capped Apennines
in a premature twilight with one twinkling star.
David Rossi's ears buzzed as with the sound of a mighty wind rushing
through trees at a distance. Bruno's last words on top of Charles
Minghelli's had struck him like an alarum bell heard through the mists
of sleep, and his head was stunned and his eyes were dizzy. He buttoned
his coat about him, and walked quickly to and fro on the lead flat by
the side of the cage, in which the birds were already bunched up and
silent.