“Yes.  I know it.  Do you think I do not reproach myself for having gone so far that I had to speak?  Indeed, indeed, I do, more than you know.  But what am I to do?  He cannot go away, ill as he is.  I cannot leave you all here.  And then, I would not leave him, if I could.  He is more to me than I can ever tell you—­I would give my right hand for his life.  Would you have me marry him, knowing that I can never love him?  Is that what you would have me do?”

Taquisara was silent for a moment, looking earnestly at her, and he bit his lip a little.

“Yes,” he said.  “That is what you should do.  It is all you can do, to try and save his life.”

The moment he had spoken he turned from her and began to walk up and down again.

“Do you know what you are asking?” Veronica followed him with her eyes.

“It is a sacrifice,” he said, pursuing his walk and not glancing at her.  “It is to give your life for his.  I know it.  But you can hardly give him more than he has given you—­or you have taken from him.  Yes—­I know what the doctors say, that it is a disease which is known and understood.  No doubt it is.  But diseases of that sort may remain latent for a lifetime, unless something determines them.  Until they have gone too far, they may be overcome.  If he had not lived for weeks in a state of nervous tension that would almost make a strong man ill, he would not be in such a condition now.  If he had never known you, he might have been as well as he ever was—­he might have been well for twenty or thirty years, before it attacked him.  It is not all your fault, but a part of it is.  Take your friendship, and your mistakes, together—­your wish that he may live, and your responsibility if he dies—­two motives are better than one, when the one is not strong enough.  You have two, and good ones.  Marry him, Donna Veronica—­marry him and save his life, if you can, and your own remorse if he dies.  Let me go to him now—­he is not asleep—­let me tell him that you have changed your mind, or made up your mind—­that you love him, after all—­”

“Please do not go on,” said Veronica, drawing back a little, till she leaned against the mantelpiece.

He had placed himself in front of her before he had finished speaking.  He was excited, vehement, and not eloquent—­like a man driven to bay by a crowd to argue a question in which he had no conviction, but which concerns his life.  He stopped speaking when she interrupted him, and he seemed to be waiting for her to say more.  She had drawn herself up a little proudly, with her head high.

“You hurt me,” she said, breaking the silence, and hardly knowing why she said the words.

“Do you think it costs me nothing?” he asked, in a low voice.

His eyes burned strangely in the lamp-light.  But he turned away quickly, to resume his walk.  She could not help asking him a question.

“Why should it cost you anything?  You are speaking for your friend—­but I—­”