"Let us pray for them all," said Francesca, very softly.
She looked up to the marble face of Christ's mother, the Addolorata, the mother of sorrows, and she thought of that sinning nun, dead long ago, who had been called Addolorata.
"Let us pray for them all," she repeated. "For Maria Braccio, for Gloria—for Angelo Reanda."
She lowered her head upon her hands. Then, presently, she looked up again, and Griggs heard her sweet voice in the darkness repeating the ancient Commemoration for the Dead, from the Canon of the Mass.
"Remember also, O Lord, thy servants who are gone before us with the sign of faith, and sleep the sleep of peace. Give them, O Lord, and to all who rest in Christ, a place of refreshment, light, and peace, for that Christ's sake, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit. Amen."
Once more she bent her head and was silent for a time. Then as she knelt, her hands moved silently along the marble and pressed the two folded hands of the man beside her, and she looked at him.
"Let us be friends," she said simply.
"Such as I am, I am yours."
Then their hands clasped. They both started and looked down, for the fingers were cold and wet and dark.
It was the blood of Angus Dalrymple that had sealed their friendship.