"Is she dying?" Sant' Ilario spoke under his breath, and laid his hand on the doctor's arm.
"Pray be calm, Signor Principe. I did not say that. But I repeat—"
"Be good enough to say what you mean without repetition," answered
Giovanni almost savagely.
The physician's face flushed with annoyance, but as Giovanni was such a very high and mighty personage he controlled his anger and replied as calmly as he could.
"The princess is not dying. But she is very ill. She may be worse before morning. You had better see her now, for she will know you. Later she may not."
Without waiting for more Giovanni turned on his heel and strode towards his wife's room. Passing through an outer chamber he saw one of her women sitting in a corner and shedding copious tears.
She looked up and pointed to the door in a helpless fashion. In another moment Giovanni was at Corona's bedside.
He would not have recognised her. Her face was wasted and white, and looked ghastly by contrast with the masses of her black hair which were spread over the broad pillow. Her colourless lips were parted and a little drawn, and her breath came faintly. Only her eyes retained the expression of life, seeming larger and more brilliant than he had ever seen them before.
Giovanni gazed on her in horror for several seconds. In his imagination he had supposed that she would look as when he had seen her last, and the shock of seeing her as she was, unstrung his nerves. For an instant he forgot everything that was past in the one strong passion that dominated him in spite of himself. His arms went round her and amidst his blinding tears he showered hot kisses on her death-like face. With a supreme effort, for she was so weak as to be almost powerless, she clasped her hands about his neck and pressed her to him, or he pressed her. The embrace lasted but a moment and her arms fell again like lead.
"You know the truth at last, Giovanni," she said, feebly. "You know that I am innocent or you would not—"