“You came to me for advice, not for sentiment,” he observed presently.  “Perhaps I am a bad adviser, but that is the worst you can say of me.  I daresay I do not understand women.  I have known a few pretty well, but that is all.  I am not a lady killer, and I certainly never wished to marry.  You must not expect much of me—­but what little there is to expect will be practical.  Perhaps Ghisleri could advise you better than I. He is a queer fellow.  If he ever cuts his throat, he will not die of it—­his heart and his head will go on living separately, just as they do now.”

Gianluca smiled again, for the description of the man was keen and true, as men knew him.

“No,” he answered; “I shall not consult Ghisleri.  You and I are different enough to understand each other.  He and I are not, though he is a good friend of mine.”

“I should not say that you resemble Ghisleri in any way,” observed Taquisara, bluntly.

“You may not see it, but I feel it.  It is not easy to explain.  He and I feel about many things in the same way, but we look at ourselves differently.”

“That sounds like a woman’s speech!” said Taquisara.  “But you are always making fine distinctions which I cannot understand.  What do you mean when you say that you look at yourselves differently?  How do you look at yourselves?”

“Do you never think about yourself, as though you were another person, and were judging yourself like a man you knew?”

“No,” said Taquisara, thoughtfully.  “I never thought of doing that.”

“But what does self-examination mean, then?” asked Gianluca.

“I have not the slightest idea.  I am myself.  I know myself.  I know what I want and do not want.  It seems to me that I know enough.  What in the world should I examine?  You would be much better if you could get rid of all that romance about conscience and self-examination and such trash.  A man knows perfectly well whether he is faithful to the woman he loves or not, whether he is betraying his friend or standing by him—­what else do you want?  I believe that theology and philosophy and self-examination, and all that, were invented in early times for heathen people who did not know whether they were doing right or wrong, because they were just converted.”

At this extraordinary view of church history Gianluca laughed.

“You may laugh,” answered the Sicilian.  “You will never make me believe that old Tancred sat up all night examining his conscience before he went to the Holy Land—­any more than he fasted and prayed before he had his daughter’s lover murdered.”

“No—­perhaps not!” Gianluca laughed again.

“He did what struck him as right and natural,” said Taquisara, gravely.  “Besides, he was sovereign prince in his own land, and it was not a murder at all, but an execution.  For a princess, his daughter behaved outrageously.  I should have done the same thing, in his place.  He had the right and the power, and he used it.  But that is not the point.  As for Ghisleri, he would have cut the boy’s head off in a rage, and then he would have spent a year on his knees in a monastery.  You would have prayed yourself into a good humour, and the fellow would have got off.”