'Oh no! Vittoria is not my sister. I remember when she was brought to Camaldoli by the outlaws when I was a boy.'
Corona bent lower still and stared into the open eyes. Their expression was quite natural and quiet, though the voice was faint now.
'It is better that someone should know,' it said. 'I know, because I saw her brought. The brigands stole her from her nurse's arms. Vittoria is the daughter of Fornasco. They frightened my father and mother—they brought the child at night—in trying to get a ransom they were all taken, but none of them would tell—there is a paper of my father's, sealed—in Rome, among my things. He always said that we might be accused, though they managed to make people believe it was my mother's child, for fear of the brigands—I cannot tell you all that. You will find it in the papers.'
The eyelids closed again, but the lips still moved. Corona bent down.
'Water,' said the parched whisper.
They gave him drink quickly, but he could hardly swallow it. He was going fast.
'Call the doctor,' said Corona to the nurse. 'He is dying. Has he seen a priest? Call my husband!'
'I had sent for a priest,' answered the nurse, leaving the room hastily.
For many minutes Tebaldo gasped painfully for breath. In his suffering Corona raised the pillow with his head upon it, tenderly and carefully.
'You are dying,' she said softly. 'Commend your soul—pray for forgiveness!'