Paolo had not moved since the surgeon had left; he was lying on his back, propped by pillows so that his face was towards the light.  He was pale now, for the flush that had been in his cheeks had subsided; his eyelids, which had been half open, had dropped and closed, so that he seemed to be sleeping peacefully, ready to wake at the slightest sound.

Marzio stood and looked at him.  This was the man he had hated through so many years of boyhood and manhood—­the man who had faced him and opposed him at every step—­who had stood up boldly before him in his own house to defend what he believed to be right.  This was Paolo, whom he had nearly killed that morning.  Marzio’s right hand felt the iron tool in the pocket of his blouse, and his fingers trembled as he touched it, while his long arms twitched nervously from the shoulder to the elbow.  He took it out, looked at it, and at the sick man’s face.  He asked himself whether he could think of using it as he had meant to, and then he let it fall upon the bit of green drugget by the bedside.

That was Paolo—­it would not need any sharpened weapon to kill him now.  A little pressure on the throat, a pillow held over his face for a few moments, and it would all be over.  And what for?  To be pursued for ever by that same white face?  No.  It was not worth while, it had never been worth while, even were that all.  But there was something else to be considered.  Paolo might now die of his accident, in his bed.  There would be no murder done in that case, no haunting horror of a presence, no discovery to be feared, since there would have been no evil.  Let him die, if he was dying!

But that was not all either.  What would it be when Paolo should be dead?  Well, he had his ideas, of course.  They were mistaken ideas.  Were they?  Perhaps, who could tell?  But he was not a bad man, this Paolo.  He had never tried to wring money out of Marzio, as some people did.  On the contrary, Marzio still felt a sense of humiliation when he thought how much he owed to the kindness of this man, his brother, lying here injured to death, and powerless to help himself or to save himself.  Powerless? yes—­utterly so.  How easy it would be, after all, to press a pillow on the unconscious face.  There would probably not even be a struggle.  Who should save him, or who could know of it?  And yet Marzio did not want to do it, as he had wished to a few hours ago.  As he looked down on the pale head he realised that he did not want Paolo to die.  Standing on the sharp edge of the precipice where life ends and breaks off, close upon the unfathomable depths of eternity, himself firmly standing and fearing no fall, but seeing his brother slipping over the brink, he would put out his hand to save him, to draw him back.  He would not have Paolo die.

He gazed upon the calm features, and he knew that he feared lest they should be still for ever.  The breath came more softly, more and more faintly.  Marzio thought.  He bent down low and tried to feel the warm air as it issued from the lips.  His fears grew to terror as the life seemed to ebb away from the white face.  In the agony of his apprehension, Marzio inadvertently laid his hand upon the injured shoulder, unconsciously pressing his weight upon the place.