“You are worse to-day,” he said, looking out.  “What has happened?” He turned again, for the answer.

“It is all over,” said Gianluca.  “My father was there last night.  She is betrothed to Bosio Macomer.”

His voice sank low, and his head fell forward a little, so that his chin rested upon his folded hands.  Taquisara uttered an exclamation of surprise, and bit the end of his cigar.

“She?  To marry Bosio Macomer?  No—­no—­I do not believe it.”

“Ask my father,” said Gianluca, without raising his eyes.  “Bosio was there, in the room, when they told my father the news.”

“No doubt,” said Taquisara, beginning to walk up and down.  “No doubt,” he repeated.  “But—­” He lit his cigar instead of finishing the sentence, and his eyes were thoughtful.

“But—­what?” asked his friend, dejectedly.  “If it had not been true, they would not have said it.  It is all over.”

“Life, you mean?  I doubt that.  Nothing is over, for nothing is done.  They are not married yet, are they?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then they may never marry.”

“Who can prevent it?  You?  I?  My father?  It is over, I tell you.  There is no hope.  I will see her once more, and then I shall die.  But I must see her once more.  You must help me to see her.”

“Of course,” answered Taquisara.  “But what strange people you are!” he exclaimed, after a moment’s pause.  “Who can understand you?  You are dying for love of her.  That is curious, in the first place.  I understand killing for love, but not dying oneself, just by folding one’s hands and looking at the stars and repeating her name.  Then, you do nothing.  You do not say, ’She shall not marry Macomer, because I, I who speak, will prevent it, and get her for myself.’  No.  Because some one has said that she will marry him, you feel sure that she will, and that ends the question.  For the word of a man or a woman, all is to be finished.  You are all contemplation, no action—­all heart, no hands—­all love, no anger!  You deserve to die for love.  I am sorry that I like you.”

“You always talk in that way!” said Gianluca, with a wearily sad intonation.  “I suppose that life is different in Sicily.”

“Life is life, everywhere,” returned the Sicilian.  “If I love a woman, it is not for the pleasure of loving her, nor for the glory of having it written on my tombstone that I have died for her.  It is better that some one else should die and that I should have what I want.  How does that seem to you?  Is it not logic?  It is true that I have never loved any woman in that way.  But then, I am young, though I am older than you are.”

“What can I do?” The pale young man smiled sadly and shook his head.  “You do not understand our society.  I cannot even see her except at a distance, unless they choose to permit it.  I cannot write love letters to her, can I?  In our world one cannot do such things, and it would be of no use if I could—­”