“That is not sure,” replied Taquisara.  “The doctor says that he has known cases—­”

“No,” interrupted Veronica.  “I know it—­I feel it.”

She was resting one hand on the heavy table, and as she spoke she bent down, as though bowed in bodily pain.  Taquisara saw the sharp lines in the smooth young forehead, and his teeth bit hard on one another as he watched her.  He could not speak.  With a quick-drawn breath she straightened herself suddenly and looked at him again.  He thought he saw the very slightest moisture, not in her eyes, but on the lower lids and just below them.  It was very hard to shed tears, and not like her.

“Hope!” he said gently.

During what seemed a long time they stood looking at each other with unchanging faces, and neither spoke.  Some people know that dead silence which descends while fate’s great hand is working in the dark, and men hold their breath and shut their eyes, listening speechless for the dull footfall of near destiny.

At last Veronica, without a word, turned from the table and went slowly towards a door.  Taquisara did not move.  When her hand was on the lock, she turned her head.

“Stand by me, whatever I do to-day,” she said earnestly.

“Yes.  I will.”

He did not find any eloquent words nor oaths of protest, but she saw his face and believed him.  She bent her head once, as though acknowledging his promise, and she went out quietly, closing the door behind her.

Some minutes passed before Taquisara also left the room in the other direction.  He wondered why she had said those last words, for he had seen again that desperate look in her face and did not understand it.  Perhaps she meant to marry Gianluca before he died, and at the thought Taquisara felt as though a strong man had struck him a heavy blow just on his heart, and for one instant he steadied himself by the table and swallowed hard, as though the breath were out of him.  It did not last a moment.  Then he, too, went out, to go to his friend.

Gianluca was gentle, quiet, almost cheerful, on that morning.  He had evidently forgotten that he had opened his eyes and seen Taquisara standing by his bedside in the night, nor would he have thought anything of so common an occurrence had it come back to his recollection.  He certainly did not remember having spoken of dying.  But he was very weak, and his face was deadly pale, rather than transparent, as it usually seemed.

Taquisara had thought of what the doctor had said about his sufferings, and hesitated before lifting him to carry him to the next room.

“Tell me,” he said, “does it hurt you very much when I take you up?”

“It hurts,” answered Gianluca, with a smile.  “Hurting is relative, you know.  I can bear it very well.  There are things that hurt more.”

“What?  When you try to move alone?”

“Oh no!  Imaginary things.  You hurt me very little—­you are so careful.  What should I have done without you?”