Terrified, perhaps, at what he had done, he disappeared—­probably as a monk in an Austrian monastery.  I hunted him for years.  Lucrezia Ferris was discreet for two reasons.  She received a large sum of money, and a large allowance afterwards, and later on it appears that she further enriched herself at Maria Consuelo’s expense.  Avarice was her chief fault, and by it we held her.  Secondly, however, she was well aware, and knows to-day, that no one would believe her story if she told the truth.  The proofs are all positive and legal for Maria Consuelo’s supposed parentage, and there is not a trace of evidence in favour of the truth.  You know the story now.  I am glad I have been able to tell it to you.  I will rest now, for I am very tired.  If I am alive to-morrow, come and see me—­good-bye, in case you should not find me.”

Orsino pressed the wasted hand and went out silently, more affected than he owned by the dying man’s words and looks.  It was a painful story of well-meant mistakes, he thought, and it explained many things which he had not understood.  Linking it with all he knew besides, he had the whole history of Spicca’s mysterious, broken life, together with the explanation of some points in his own which had never been clear to him.  The old cynic of a duellist had been a man of heart, after all, and had sacrificed his whole existence to keep a secret for a woman whom he loved but who did not care for him.  That was all.  She was dead and he was dying.  The secret was already half buried in the past.  If it were told now, no one would believe it.

Orsino returned on the following day.  He had sent for news several times, and was told that Spicca still lingered.  He saw him again but the old man seemed very weak and only spoke a few words during the hour Orsino spent with him.  The doctor had said that he might possibly live, but that there was not much hope.

And again on the next day Orsino came back.  He started as he entered the room.  An old Franciscan, a Minorite, was by the bedside, speaking in low tones.  Orsino made as though he would withdraw, but Spicca feebly beckoned to him to stay, and the monk rose.

“Good-bye,” whispered Spicca, following him with his sunken eyes.

Orsino led the Franciscan out.  At the outer door the latter turned to Orsino with a strange look and laid a hand upon his arm.

“Who are you, my son?” he asked.

“Orsino Saracinesca.”

“A friend of his?”

“Yes.”

“He has done terrible things in his long life.  But he has done noble things, too, and has suffered much, and in silence.  He has earned his rest, and God will forgive him.”

The monk bowed his head and went out.  Orsino re-entered the room and took the vacant chair beside the bed.  He touched Spicca’s hand almost affectionately, but the latter withdrew it with an effort.  He had never liked sympathy, and liked it least when another would have needed it most.  For a considerable time neither spoke.  The pale hand lay peacefully upon the pillows, the long, shadowy frame was wrapped in a gown of dark woollen material.