silver spectacles and letting it fall upon the other, in a slow and absent-minded fashion to which no one could have attached any especial importance.  People who have kept a secret very long and well, keep it when they are alone, even when it turns its bones in the narrow grave of their hearts, reminding them that it is there and would be glad to see if it could get a vampire’s dead life for a night, and come out, and draw blood.

Taquisara went away and re-entered the castle, walking more slowly than was his wont.  In the narrow court within, he stopped before passing through the door, and stood a long time staring at a fragment of a marble tablet with a part of a Roman inscription cut on it, which was built into the enormous masonry of the main wall and had remained white while the surrounding blocks had grown black with age.  There was no more apparent reason why he should try to make out the meaning of the inscription, than why Don Teodoro should play so long with his glasses, all alone in his room.  But Taquisara was not thinking of Don Teodoro.  He had a secret of his own to keep from everybody, and if possible from himself.

But that was not easy.  The thing which had taken hold of him was as strong as he was and seemed to be watching him, grip for grip, hold for hold, wrench for wrench.  It had not beaten him yet, but he knew that to yield a hair’s breadth would mean a fall, and a bad one.  He had almost relaxed his strength that little, last night, when he had been alone with Veronica.

He read the letters of the inscription over twenty times, then turned sharply on his heel and went in, having probably convinced himself that to waste time over his own thoughts was the worst waste imaginable, since the more he thought of anything, the more he loved Veronica.  And he had set himself to arrange the meeting between Gianluca and Don Teodoro, and each hour was precious.

His face helped him, for he did not easily betray emotion; he rarely changed colour at all, and was not a man of mobile features.  But he had grown thinner since he had been in Muro, and the clearly cut curves that marked the Saracen strain in him were sharper and more defined.

He went in and met Veronica in the large room in which they usually fenced, and which lay between what was really the drawing-room and the apartment set aside for Gianluca and Taquisara.  She was standing alone beside the table, her face very white, and as she turned to Taquisara, he saw something desperate in her eyes.

“I have seen the doctor again,” she said, not waiting for any greeting, and knowing that he would understand.

“And I have seen the priest,” answered Taquisara.

She started, and pressed her lips tightly to suppress something.  Her eyes wandered slowly and then came back to the Sicilian before she spoke.

“You have done right,” she said, and then paused a second.  “He is going to die to-day,” she added, very low.