Paolo might not come that evening, but at least Maria Luisa and Lucia would speak of him, and it would be a comfort to hear his name spoken aloud.  Marzio’s step quickened with the thought, and in another moment he was at the door.  To his surprise it was opened before he could ring, and old Assunta came forward with her wrinkled fingers raised to her lips.

“Hist! hist!” she whispered.  “It goes a little better—­or at least—­”

“What?  Who?” asked Marzio, instinctively whispering also.

“Eh!  You have not heard?  Don Paolo—­they have killed him!”

“Paolo!” exclaimed Marzio, staggering and leaning against the door-post.

“He is not dead—­not dead yet at least,” went on the old woman in low, excited tones.  “He was in the church with Tista—­a ladder—­”

Marzio did not stop to hear more, but pushed past Assunta with his burden under his arm, and entered the passage.  The door at the end was open, and he saw his wife standing in the bright light in the sitting-room, anxiously looking towards him as though she had heard his coming.

“For God’s sake, Gigia,” he said, addressing her by her old pet name, “tell me quickly what has happened!”

The Signora Pandolfi explained as well as she could, frequently giving way to her grief in passionate sobs.  She was incoherent, but the facts were so simple that Marzio understood them.  He was standing by the table, his hand resting upon the wooden case he had brought, and his face was very pale.

“Let me understand,” he said at last.  “Tista was on the ladder.  The ladder slipped, Paolo ran to catch it, and it fell on him.  He is badly hurt, but not dead; is that it, Gigia?”

Maria Luisa nodded in the midst of a fit of weeping.

“The surgeon has been, you say?  Yes.  And where is Paolo lying?”

“In Tista’s room,” sobbed his wife.  “They are with him now.”

Marzio stood still and hesitated.  He was under the influence of the most violent emotion, and his face betrayed something of what he felt.  The idea of Paolo’s death had played a tremendous part in his thoughts during the whole day, and he had firmly believed that he had got rid of that idea, and was to realise in meeting his brother that it had all been a dream.  The news he now heard filled him with horror.  It seemed as if the intense wish for Paolo’s death had in some way produced a material result without his knowledge; it was as though he had killed his brother by a thought—­as though he had had a real share in his death.

He could hardly bear to go and see the wounded man, so strong was the impression that gained possession of him.  His fancy called up pictures of Paolo lying wounded in bed, and he dreaded to face the sight.  He turned away from the table and began to walk up and down the little room.  In a corner his foot struck against something—­the drawing board on which he had begun to sketch the night before.