Severino was lying in a high, square bed, his black locks tossed upon a spotless pillow no whiter than his face; a transparent hand came from under the bedclothes to meet Langholm's outstretched one, but it fell back upon the sick man's breast instead.
"Do you forgive me?" he whispered, in a voice both hoarse and hollow.
"What for?" smiled Langholm. "You had a right to come where you liked; it is a free country, Severino."
"But I went to your hotel—behind your back!"
"That was quite fair, my good fellow. Come, I mean to shake hands, whether you like it or not."
And the sound man took the sick one's hand with womanly tenderness; and so sat on the bed, looking far into the great dark sinks of fever that were human eyes; but the fever was of the brain, for the poor fellow's hand was cool.
"You do not ask me why I did it," came from the tremulous lips at last.
"Perhaps I know."
"I will tell you if you are right."
"It was to see her again—your kindest friend—and mine," said Langholm, gently.