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 him! spare him! cried the attendants, for this good man's sake! Peace! said Manfred sternly: I must know more, ere I am disposed to pardon. A Saint's bastard may be no saint himself. Injurious Lord! said Theodore? add not insult to cruelty. If I am this venerable man's son, tho' no Prince, as thou art, know, the blood that flows in my veins—yes, said the Friar, interrupting him, his blood is noble; nor is he that abject thing, my Lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son; and Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara—but alas! my Lord, what is blood! what is nobility! We are all reptiles, miserable, sinful creatures. It is piety alone that can distinguish us from the dust whence we sprung, and whither we must return—Truce to your sermon; said Manfred: You forget, you are no longer Friar Jerome, but the Count of Falconara. Let me know your history: you will have time to moralize hereafter, if you should not happen to obtain the grace of that sturdy criminal there.