She was bound hand and foot, soul, body, and intelligence, for life.  She, the very strong, was tied to the helpless; she, the energetic, was bound to apathy; she, the active, was nailed to the passive; she, the free, the erect, was bowed under a burden which she must carry to her life’s end, never to be free again.

She could bear the burden, and she said none of these things to herself.  But the wrong was upon nature, and the mother of all turned against the one child that would be unlike all the rest.

The man who was a man, soul and body, heart, hand, and spirit, stood beside the other, who was a shadow, and beside her, who was a woman—­and the tragedy began in the prologue of contrast.  Strength to weakness, motion to immobility, the grace and carriage of manly youth to the sad restfulness of helpless, hopeless limbs that never again could feel and bear weight; that was the contrast from which there was no escaping.  On the steps of love’s temple, at the very threshold, the one lay half dead, never to rise again; and beside him stood the other, in the pride and glory of the morning of life.

It would have been hard, even if the contrast had been less strong to the eye, and the distance of the two souls greater one from the other—­even if Taquisara had not been what he was.  But as the one, in his being, was alive from head to heel, so the other was dead save in the thoughts in which he still had a shadowy life.  And for the rest—­flesh, blood, and life apart—­they were equals.  Was Gianluca true?  Taquisara was as honest and loyal as the brave daylight.  Was the one brave?  So was the other, in thought and deed.  Was Gianluca enduring?  So was Taquisara, and he had the more to endure, the more to fight, the more to keep down in him.

She knew that he loved her.  How it was that she knew it she could not tell, but sometimes the music of the truth rang in her ears till the flame shot up in her face and she shut her eyes to hide her soul—­a loud, triumphant music, stately and grand as might herald the marching of archangels—­till her inward cry of terror pierced it, and all was as still as the grave.  Then, for a space, the vision of sin stood dark in the way, and she turned and fled from it back to Gianluca’s side, back to the care of him, back to his helpless love for her, back to his pathetic, stricken restfulness, back to the maiden dreams of a life-long friendship, unbroken as the calm of the summer ocean, perfect as the cloudless sky of those golden autumn days.

For a time, the dark wraith of sin faded, and there was no music in the air, and her cheek was cool, while she looked all the world in the face with the fearless eyes of a child-empress.  Again the monotonous, good day rolled in the same grooves, noiselessly, and surely, as all the days to come were to roll along, to the end of ends.  She worked for her people, talked with Don Teodoro, talked, smiled, laughed with Gianluca, and bore the old Duchessa’s ramblings with patience and kindness.