“Do you think she will come to-day?” asked the old man at length.

“She may come to-day—­I hope so,” Orsino answered.

A long pause followed.

“I hope so, too,” Spicca whispered.  “I have not much strength left.  I cannot wait much longer.”

Again there was silence.  Orsino knew that there was nothing to be said, nothing at least which he could say, to cheer the last hours of the lonely life.  But Spicca seemed contented that he should sit there.

“Give me that photograph,” he said, suddenly, a quarter of an hour later.

Orsino looked about him but could not see what Spicca wanted.

“Hers,” said the feeble voice, “in the next room.”

It was the photograph in the little chiselled frame—­the same frame which had once excited Donna Tullia’s scorn.  Orsino brought it quickly from its place over the chimney-piece, and held it before his friend’s eyes.  Spicca gazed at it a long time in silence.

“Take it away,” he said, at last.  “It is not like her.”

Orsino put it aside and sat down again.  Presently Spicca turned a little on the pillow and looked at him.

“Do you remember that I once said I wished you might marry her?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“It was quite true.  You understand now?  I could not tell you then.”

“Yes.  I understand everything now.”

“But I am sorry I said it.”

“Why?” “Perhaps it influenced you and has hurt your life.  I am sorry.  You must forgive me.”

“For Heaven’s sake, do not distress yourself about such trifles,” said Orsino, earnestly.  “There is nothing to forgive.”

“Thank you.”

Orsino looked at him, pondering on the peaceful ending of the strange life, and wondering what manner of heart and soul the man had really lived with.  With the intuition which sometimes comes to dying persons, Spicca understood, though it was long before he spoke again.  There was a faint touch of his old manner in his words.

“I am an awful example, Orsino,” he said, with the ghost of a smile.  “Do not imitate me.  Do not sacrifice your life for the love of any woman.  Try and appreciate sacrifices in others.”

The smile died away again.

“And yet I am glad I did it,” he added, a moment later.  “Perhaps it was all a mistake—­but I did my best.”

“You did indeed,” Orsino answered gravely.

He meant what he said, though he felt that it had indeed been all a mistake, as Spicca suggested.  The young face was very thoughtful.  Spicca little knew how hard his last cynicism hit the man beside him, for whose freedom and safety the woman of whom Spicca was thinking had sacrificed so very much.  He would die without knowing that.

The door opened softly and a woman’s light footstep was on the threshold.  Maria Consuelo came silently and swiftly forward with outstretched hands that had clasped the dying man’s almost before Orsino realised that it was she herself.  She fell on her knees beside the bed and pressed the powerless cold fingers to her forehead.