He did not idealize the woman he loved, for he was not a man of ideals, nor of much imagination.  Such defects as she might have, he did not see, and if he had seen them he would have been indifferent to them.  To such a man, loving meant everything and admitted of no comment, because there was no part of him left free to judge.  He was a whole-souled man, who asked no questions of himself and no advice of others.  He had never needed counsel, in his own opinion, and for the rest, what he felt was himself and not a secondary, dual being of separate passions and impressions which he could analyze and examine.  He had never comprehended that strange machine of nicely-balanced doubts and certainties, forever in a state of half-morbid equilibrium between the wish, the thought, and the deed—­such a man as Pietro Ghisleri was, for instance, who would refuse a beggar an alms lest the giving should be a satisfaction to his own vanity, and then, perhaps, would turn back in pity and give the poor wretch half a handful of silver.  When Taquisara once knew that he loved Veronica, he never reverted to a state of doubt.  He fought against it, because his friend had loved her first, and rooting himself where he stood, as it were, he would have let the passion tear him piecemeal rather than be moved by it.  But he never had the smallest doubt as to what the passion was in itself and might be, in its consequences, if he should be weak for one moment.  Simple struggles, when they are for life and death, are more terrible than any complicated conflict can possibly be.

Don Teodoro was a long time alone with Gianluca.  Whatever reasons he had of his own for not wishing to comply with Taquisara’s request, he overcame them and faithfully carried out the mission imposed upon him.  In itself it was no very hard one.  Gianluca was a religious man, as Taquisara had said that he was, and he knew that he was very ill, though he did not believe himself to be dying.  With his character and in his condition, he was glad to talk seriously with such a man as Don Teodoro, and then to lay before him the account of his few shortcomings according to the practice of his belief.

The old priest came out at last, grave and bent, and, going through the rooms, he came upon Veronica standing alone where Taquisara had left her.  She did not know how long she had stood there, waiting for him.  He paused before her, and her eyes questioned him.

“He wishes to see you,” he said simply.

“How is he?” He had not understood her unspoken question.  “How is he?” she repeated, as he hesitated a moment.

“To me he seems no worse.  He says that he feels better to-day.  But there is something, some change—­something, I cannot tell what it is, since I last saw him.”

“Stay here—­please stay in the house!” said Veronica.  “He may need you.”