That was my father, and in his fierce
anger he asked himself what he ought to do in order to punish the man
who had killed his daughter.
"Then a strange thing happened. On the day before the funeral the young
musician walked into my father's room. His face was white and wasted,
and his eyes were red and swollen. He had come to ask if he might be
allowed to be one of those to carry the coffin. My father consented.
'I'll leave him alone,' he thought. 'The man is punished enough.'
"All the people of Albano came to the funeral and there was not a dry
eye as the cortege passed from our chapel to the grave. Everybody knew
the story of my sister's hopeless love, but only two in the world knew
the secret of her tragic death--her young lover, who was sobbing aloud
as he staggered along with her body on his shoulder, and her old father,
who was walking bareheaded and in silence, behind him."
My heart was beating audibly and the Reverend Mother stroked my hand to
compose me--perhaps to compose herself also. It was now quite dark, the
stars were coming out, and the bells of the two monasteries on opposite
sides of the lake were ringing the first hour of night.
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