Though Gianluca had seemed to gain strength during the first week of his stay at Muro, he appeared to lose it even more rapidly after that memorable afternoon.  It was not that he lost heart and control of courage; on the contrary, he spoke all at once more hopefully, and grew most particular in the carrying out of each detail of the day, precisely in the manner prescribed by the doctors.  He forced himself to eat, he did his best to sleep a certain number of hours, he made Taquisara carry him out into the air and back again at fixed times, in order that the extreme regularity of his life might help his recovery if possible.  But all this was of no use.  It had seemed inconceivable that he should grow more thin, and yet his face and throat and hands shrunk day by day.  He could not use his legs at all, now, and he told no one that he had hardly any sensation in them.

The Duchessa prayed for her son, always in her own room and sometimes in the church, whither she went often alone in the afternoon, and sometimes accompanied by her husband.  She even curtailed her daily siesta in order to have more time for prayer.  No doubt, she would have given anything in the world for Gianluca, but she had very little else to give, beyond that sacrifice, which did not seem small or laughable to her.  The Duca said little, but often shook his head, unexpectedly, and his weak eyes were watery.  He sometimes walked twenty-five times round the top of the big lower bastion, under the vines that grew upon the trellis over it, before the midday breakfast, while the Duchessa was at her devotions.  At every round, when he came to the point fronting the valley he paused a moment and repeated very much the same words each time.

“My poor son!  My poor Gianluca!” he said, and then shuffled round the bastion again.

Taquisara scarcely left the sick man’s side except when Gianluca could be alone with Veronica.  He was evidently very anxious, though his face betrayed little of what he felt.  He knew it, and was glad that nature had given him that bronze-like colour, which could hardly change at all.  When the whole party were together, he talked; he talked when he was alone with Gianluca; but when he was with Gianluca and Veronica he spoke in monosyllables.  Once she noticed that he was biting his lip nervously, just as he turned away his face.

Though Gianluca was worse, without doubt, he insisted that there should be no change in his way of spending the day.  To amuse him, Veronica and Taquisara fenced a little of an afternoon.  But the Sicilian had no heart in it, and evidently did not care whether Veronica touched him or not, and his indifference annoyed her, so that she sometimes worked herself into little furies of attack, and he, rather than really attack her in return and oppose his strength, broke ground and let himself be driven back across the room.

“Some day I shall take the foil with the green hilt,” laughed Veronica.  “Then you will really take the trouble to fight me.”