He himself lost heart suddenly.

“I shall never walk again,” he said, one afternoon, as they sat together in the big room.

The days were very short, for it was mid-December, and the lamps had been brought.  They had been out in the carriage, and when Taquisara had lifted him from his seat, he had made a desperate attempt to move his legs, a sudden effort into which he had thrown all the concentrated hope and will that were still in him.  But there had been neither motion nor sensation, and all at once he had felt that it was all over, forever.

Veronica looked at him quickly, and he was watching her face.  He saw no contradiction there of what he had said, but only a little surprise that he should have said it.

“You may not be able to walk as soon as we thought,” she answered gently.  “But that is no reason why you should never walk at all.”

“I am afraid it is,” he said.

She stroked his hand, as she often did, and her eyes wandered from his face to the other side of the room, and back again.

“I have been trying very hard to get well,” he continued presently.  “Harder than any one knows.”

“I know,” Veronica answered.  “You are so brave!”

“Brave?  No.  I am desperate.  Do you think I do not know what it must be to you, to be tied to a hopeless cripple like me?”

“Tied?  I?” She spoke bravely, for it would have been a deadly cruelty not to contradict him.  “It is for you,” she went on.  “You must not think of me as tied to you, dear, as you call it!  I did it gladly, of my own free will, and I knew what I was doing.”

“Ah no!” he answered sadly.  “You could not have known what you were doing, then.  Your whole life has only saved half of mine.”

A chill of fear shot through Veronica’s heart.

“Dear,” she said anxiously and nervously.  “Have I done anything to make you talk like this?”

“Yes, love, you have done much,” he answered, with a tender, regretful look.  “No—­do not start!  I am sorry that you did not understand.  It is because you do so much, because you give your whole life for my wretched existence, because I know what my hours of happiness cost you now and will cost you hereafter.  That is why I say these things.  It would have been so much easier and simpler if I had died with my hand in yours, that day, when Don Teodoro married us.  Veronica—­tell me—­did he say all the words?  I fainted, I think.”

“Yes,” answered Veronica, still pale.  “He said all the words.”

“And did he give us the benediction?”

“Yes, he gave us the benediction.”

Gianluca sighed.

“Then it cannot be undone, dear,” he said softly.  “You must forgive me.”

“I would not have it undone, Gianluca.”

And before that great unselfishness, Veronica bowed her head down, until her lips kissed his hands.  But as she touched them, she heard the door open, and instantly she was erect again, and trying to smile.  Taquisara came in.