“Get Don Teodoro at once, and bring him,” she cried.  “He is in the house—­somewhere.”

Taquisara thought that Gianluca was dying, and neither paused nor answered, as he disappeared within.

Veronica came back instantly.  She had not been gone thirty seconds, but already the sick man’s face was grey again, though his eyes were wide and staring.  His head had fallen to one side, on the brown silk cushion, in his last attempt to reach her.  With both hands, she raised him a little, so that he lay straight again.

“They are coming—­they are coming, dear one!” she repeated.  “Live, live!  Gianluca—­live, for me!”

In her agony of fighting for his life, she pushed his hair back, and pressed her lips in one long kiss upon his forehead.  A shiver ran through him, and the sense came back to his eyes.  But though she held his hand, there was no more strength in it to grasp hers.  He sighed the words she heard.

“Love—­is it you?  Veronica—­love—­life!  Ah, Christ!”

And his lids closed again.  The door opened, and was shut, and Veronica half turned her head to see, but she brought her face tenderly nearer to his, as though to let him know that it was for his sake she looked away.  Don Teodoro and Taquisara were both in the room.  Even before she spoke, she had changed her hold upon Gianluca’s fingers, and held his right hand in hers, as those hold hands who are to be wedded.

“Bless us!” she said to the priest.  “This is our marriage!  Say the words—­quickly!”

Taquisara’s face was livid, for he had as much of instant death in him as the dying man, though he could not die.  But he did not fail.  He came and knelt on the other side of the couch, away from Veronica.  The priest stood at the foot, in pale hesitation.  Veronica’s eyes commanded.

“Speak quickly!” she said.  “I will marry him—­I have said it!  Gianluca—­say it—­say that you will marry me!”

Holding his right hand, with her left thrust under his pillow she lifted him so that he sat almost upright.  It needed all her strength, and she was very desperate for him.

“Volo!” The one word floated on the air, breathed, not spoken, and dead silence followed.

Again Veronica turned to Don Teodoro.

“Say the words.  I command you!  I have the right—­I am free!”

The priest’s face was white now.  He stretched out his arms, lifting his eyes upwards.

A worse change was in Gianluca’s face before Don Teodoro had spoken the words he had to say.  Taquisara saw it.  Both he and Veronica bent over the motionless head.  Still Veronica held the cold hand in hers.  Taquisara knew that in another instant the priest would speak.  Gently, with womanly tenderness, though his soul was on the wheel of anguish, he took Veronica’s right hand and loosed it, and Gianluca’s fell cold and motionless from her fingers.

“He is gone,” he whispered, close to her ear, and he held her right hand firmly, in his horror at the thought that she might be wedded to a man already dead.