“You are indeed his friend,” said Veronica, softly.

She was struck by the beauty of what the man had said so plainly and unaffectedly.

“Yes, I am his friend,” replied Taquisara.  “One of his friends, say,—­for he has many.  I am his friend as you are the friend of Donna Bianca.  You understand that, do you not?  And you understand that there is nothing you would not do for a friend?  Not out of mere obligation, because your friend has done much for you, but just for friendship—­love, if you choose to call it so.  I have heard people speak eloquently of friendship—­so have you perhaps.  And we both understand what it means, though many do not.  That is why I speak as I do, and if I do not speak well, you must forgive me, and feel the meaning I cannot express to your ears.  Gianluca loves you, Donna Veronica, as men very rarely love women, so immensely, so strongly, that his love is burning up his life in him—­and it has all been kept from you for some reason or other, while your relations are doing their best to make you marry Bosio Macomer, who can no more be compared with Gianluca della Spina than—­”

He checked himself, for he felt that his tone was contemptuous, and remembered that Veronica might perhaps like Bosio.  She was listening, her eyes fixed on the distance, her mind wide open to the new experience of life which had come so unexpectedly.

“He cannot be compared with Gianluca,” continued Taquisara, modifying his sentence and omitting whatever simile had presented itself in his thoughts.  “If you knew Gianluca, you would understand.  It is because I know him well that I speak for him, that I implore you, pray you, beseech you, to see him before you consent to marry Count Bosio—­”

“To see him!” exclaimed Veronica, startled at the sudden proposition, which was a blow to every tradition she had ever learned.

But the Sicilian was not a man to hesitate at trifles where women were concerned, nor men either.

“Yes—­to see him!” he answered with a certain vehemence.  “Is it a sin?  Is it a crime?  Is it dishonourable?  Why should you cry out?  What is society that it should take you young girls by the throat, like martyrs, and chain you with proprieties to the stake of its rigid law—­to be burnt to death afterwards by slow fire, like your best friend there, Donna Bianca?  Ah—­you understand that.  You know her life, and I know it too.  It is the life—­or the death—­to which you may look forward if you will neither open your eyes to see, nor raise your hand to guard yourself.  And you cry out in outraged horror at the idea of seeing Gianluca della Spina here, in this garden, by these steps, under God’s sunlight, as you see me here to-day by accident.  It seems to you—­what shall I say?—­unladylike!” Taquisara laughed scornfully.  “What does it matter whether you are unladylike or not, so long as you are womanly, and kind, and brave?  I am telling you truths you have never heard, but you have a woman’s