burying his face against the pillow, shaking all over, his arms hanging down loose and helpless by his sides, bent, bowed, crushed, as a weak old lion, stricken in age and cruelly wounded to death.  And above them all, Taquisara’s sad, deep-chiselled face looked down, as the face of a bronze statue beside a grave.  Without, the winter’s rain beat a low dead-march on the great windows, and the southwest wind sighed out its vast breath along the castle walls.

It was long since he had spoken, and they thought that they should never hear his voice again.  But still the last light lingered in his eyes.  Very little was left for him to do.

He moved Veronica’s right hand, that was in his, drawing it a little, and she let it move; and his other held Taquisara’s, and he drew it also, they yielding, till the two touched, and at his dying will clasped one another.  Then he smiled faintly, his last smile on earth.  And as it faded forever, there came back to them from beyond all pain the words of his blessing upon their two strong young lives.

“Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus—­” and the angels heard the rest.

Thus died Gianluca della Spina.

The end.