For some months my father had been enjoying the shelter of the Perugians, and he had repaid their hospitality by joining them and bearing arms with them in the ill-starred blow they struck for liberty.

They had been crushed in the encounter by the troops of Pier Luigi, and my father had been among the slain.
And well was it for him that he came by so fine and merciful an end, thought I, when I had heard the tale of horrors that had been undergone by the unfortunates who had fallen into the hands of Farnese.
My mother heard him to the end without any sign of emotion.

She sat there, cold and impassive as a thing of marble, what time Fra Gervasio--who was my father's foster-brother, as you shall presently learn more fully--sank his head upon his arm and wept like a child to hear the piteous tale of it.

And whether from force of example, whether from the memories that came to me so poignantly in that moment of a fine strong man with a brown, shaven face and a jovial, mighty voice, who had promised me that one day we should ride together, I fell a-weeping too.
When the tale was done, my mother coldly gave orders that Falcone be cared for, and went to pray, taking me with her.
Oftentimes since have I wondered what was the tenour of her prayers that night.

Were they for the rest of the great turbulent soul that was gone forth in sin, in arms against the Holy Church, excommunicate and foredoomed to Hell?
Or were they of thanksgiving that at last she was completely mistress of my destinies, her mind at rest, since no longer need she fear opposition to her wishes concerning me?
I do not know, nor will I do her the possible injustice that I should were I to guess..