“No—­not mad.  But not cowardly either.  There is not much left of me, but what there is shall not be afraid.  I am not truly married to her.  I will not be.  I will not die with that on my soul.”

“Gianluca—­for God’s sake do not say such things!” Taquisara turned upon him, staring.

He sat in his deep chair, his fair angel head thrown back, the dark blue eyes bright, brave, and daring—­all the rest, dead.

“I say them, and I mean them,” he answered.  “I love her very much.  I love her enough for that.  I love her more than you do.”

“Than I?” Taquisara’s voice almost broke, as the blow struck him, but there was no fear in his eyes either.  He drew a breath then, and spoke strong words.  “Now may Christ forget me in the hour of death, if I have not been true to you!”

“And me and mine if I blast your life and hers,” came back the unflinching answer.

A deep silence fell upon them both.  At last Gianluca spoke again, and his voice sank to another tone.

“She loves you, too,” he said.

“Loves me?” cried Taquisara, his brows suddenly close bent.  “Oh no!  Unsay that, or—­no—­Gianluca—­how dare you even dream the right to say that of your wife?”

It was beyond his strength to bear.

“She is not my wife,” said Gianluca.  “You have told me so—­she is not my wife.  She has done what no other living woman could have done, to be my wife and to love me.  But she is not my wife, and what I say is true, and right as well, your right and hers.

“No—­not that—­not hers.”  Taquisara turned half round, against the table, where he stood, and his voice was low and broken.

“Yes, hers.  You will know it soon—­when I have taken my love to my grave, and left her yours on earth.”

“Gianluca!”

Taquisara could not speak, beyond that, but he laid his hand upon his friend’s arm and clutched it, as though to hold him back.  His dark eyes darkened, and in them were the terrible tears that strong men shed once in life, and sometimes once again, but very seldom more.

Gianluca’s thin fingers folded upon the hand that held him.

“You have been very true to me,” he said.  “She will be quite safe with you.”

For a long time they were both silent.  It began to rain, and the big drops beat against the windows, melancholy as the muffled drum of a funeral march, and the grey morning light grew still more dim.

“I will not go into the other room just yet,” said Gianluca, quietly.  “I would rather be alone for a little while.”

Their eyes met once more, and Taquisara went away without a word.

That had been almost the last act of the strange tragedy of love and death which had been lived out in slow scenes during those many weeks.  It was needful that it should come, and inevitable, soon or late.  It began when Gianluca made that one last desperate effort to move, in sudden certainty of hope that ended in the instant foreknowledge of what was to be.  A little thing swayed him then—­such a little thing as the accident of a sharp foil, a rent in a jacket, the woman’s blinding fear for the man she loved.  There are many arrows in fate’s quiver, and the little ones are as keen as the long shafts, and quicker to find the tender mark.