They had no further visit from Barto Rizzo.  The woman tended them in the same unswerving silence, and at whiles that adorable maternity of aspect.  Wilfrid was touched by commiseration for her.  He was too bitterly fretful on account of clean linen and the liberty which fluttered the prospect of it, to think much upon what her fate might be:  perhaps a beating, perhaps the knife.  But the vileness of wearing one shirt two months and more had hardened his heart; and though he was considerate enough not to prompt his companion very impatiently, he submitted desperate futile schemes to him, and suggested—­“To-night?—­tomorrow?—­ the next day?” Rinaldo did not heed him.  He lay on his couch like one who bleeds inwardly, thinking of the complacent faithfulness of that poor creature’s face.  Barto Rizzo had sworn to him that there should be a rising in Milan before the month was out; but he had lost all confidence in Milanese risings.  Ammiani would be removed, if he delayed; and he knew that the moment his letter reached Lugano, Angelo would start for Milan and claim to surrender in his stead.  The woman came, and went forth, and Rinaldo did not look at her until his resolve was firm.

He said to Wilfrid in her presence, “Swear that you will reveal nothing of this house.”

Wilfrid spiritedly pronounced his gladdest oath.

“It is dark in the streets,” Rinaldo addressed the woman.  “Lead us out, for the hour has come when I must go.”

She clutched her hands below her bosom to stop its great heaving, and stood as one smitten by the sudden hearing of her sentence.  The sight was pitiful, for her face scarcely changed; the anguish was expressionless.  Rinaldo pointed sternly to the door.

“Stay,” Wilfrid interposed.  “That wretch may be in the house, and will kill her.”

“She is not thinking of herself,” said Rinaldo.

“But, stay,” Wilfrid repeated.  The woman’s way of taking breath shocked and enfeebled him.

Rinaldo threw the door open.

“Must you? must you?” her voice broke.

“Waste no words.”

“You have not seen a priest?”

“I go to him.”

“You die.”

“What is death to me?  Be dumb, that I may think well of you till my last moment.”

“What is death tome?  Be dumb!”

She had spoken with her eyes fixed on his couch.  It was the figure of one upon the scaffold, knitting her frame to hold up a strangled heart.

“What is death to me?  Be dumb!” she echoed him many times on the rise and fall of her breathing, and turned to get him in her eyes.  “Be dumb! be dumb!” She threw her arms wide out, and pressed his temples and kissed him.