“I know,” said Gianluca.

Taquisara made up his mind that he must take the initiative and speak with Don Teodoro.  He had been willing and ready to give up all right to hope for the woman he loved, in order that his friend might marry her, but the idea that there should be an irregularity about the marriage, or no real marriage at all, as he believed was the case, was more than he could, or would, bear.  To speak with Veronica was out of the question.  He knew enough of women to understand that if she ever knew how, by an accident, she had held his hand instead of Gianluca’s at the moment when she was giving her very soul to save the dying man, she might never forgive him.  She might even turn and hate him.  She would never believe that he himself had not known what he was doing.  If it were possible, he would not incur such risk.  Anything in reason and honour would be better than to be hated by her.  He had seen her change of manner, of late, and he knew very well that she was beginning to like him much more than formerly.

In the morning, after Don Teodoro had said mass, Taquisara went to him and found him over his books.  This time the priest recognized him at once and rose to greet him gravely, as though he had expected his visit.

“Have you made up your mind what to do?” asked the Sicilian, as he sat down.

It was as though they had been in the habit of discussing the situation together, and were about to renew a conversation which had been broken off.

“I know what I shall have to do, if matters go any further,” answered the priest, in a dull voice, unlike his own.

“What would that be?”

“It is in my power to cause the marriage to be declared null and void.”

“By appealing to your bishop, I suppose.  In that event Donna Veronica would have to be told.”

“There is another way.”

“Then why do you not take it and act at once?  Why do you hesitate?” Taquisara watched him keenly.

“Because it would mean the sacrifice of my whole existence.  I am human.  I hesitate, as long as there is any other hope.”

“I do not understand.  As for sacrificing your existence—­that must be an exaggeration.”

“Not at all.  If it were only my own, I should not have hesitated, perhaps.  I do not know.  But what I should do would involve a great and direct injury to many others—­to hundreds of other people.”

Taquisara looked at him harder than ever, understanding him less and less.

“You seem to have a secret,” he said at last, thoughtfully.

“Yes,” answered the priest, resting his elbow on the old table and shading his eyes with his hand, though there was no strong light to dazzle him.  “Yes—­yes,” he repeated.  “I have a secret, a great secret.  I cannot tell it to you—­not even to you, though you are one of the most discreet men I ever met.  You must forgive me, but I cannot.”