And sometimes, too, while she was there, the man who loved her so silently and so well was by his friend’s side, tending as his own the life that stood between him and the hope of happiness; loving both him and her, but honour best.  But sometimes he, too, was alone in his own room, and even at his window, facing the same broad moon, the same white mist in the sleeping valley, the same dark, crested hills, but not hearing the music that the woman heard.  He could be calm for a while as he looked out; but presently, without warning, he swallowed hard, and again, as on the fatal day, he held her little hand in his, under the priest’s great sign of the cross, and his own blood shrieked in his ears.  In cruel anger against himself, he turned from the window then and paced the room with short, braced steps, till at last he threw himself into a deep chair and sullenly took the first book at hand, to read himself back to the monotony of all he had to bear.

And so those two fearless ones went through the days and weeks in twofold terror of themselves and each of the other, and the slow, wordless tragedy was acted before eyes that saw but did not understand.  Still Gianluca refused to go away, and still Veronica refused to send for the syndic.  She would not yield to the Duchessa, who found herself opposed both by her son and her son’s wife.

No one knew how much Veronica herself still hoped, when the bright autumn days were broken at last by the first winter storm that rose out of the dark south in monstrous wrath against such perpetual calm.  She herself did not know whether she still hoped for any improvement, or whether, in her inmost thoughts, she had given up hope and had accepted the certainty that Gianluca was never to be better than he was now.  There is something of habit in all hope that has been with us long, and the habits we notice the least are sometimes the hardest of all to break.

When Veronica said that Gianluca would yet stand up and walk, no one contradicted her, except the doctors, and she had no faith in them.  They came and went.  The great professor came three times from Naples and saw the patient, ate his dinner, slept soundly, and went away assuring Veronica that it was useless to send for him unless some great change took place.  To please her, he recommended a little electricity, baths, light treatment such as could give little trouble, and he carefully instructed the young doctor of Muro in all he was to do.  When he had finished, and the young man had promised to do everything regularly, they looked at each other, smiled sadly, but professionally, and parted with mutual good will and understanding, both knowing that the case was now perfectly hopeless.  Their coming and going made little intervals in the tragic play of life, but never broke its continuity.