"Anything," she answered. "And you have the right to ask anything."
"No—not this. Do you love another man?"
The still blue eyes widened, in earnestness.
"No, Gianluca. No—by the truth of God—no living man!"
"Nor one dead?" His tone sank almost to a whisper, and still his eyes were wide for her answer.
A faint and tender light came into her face, so faint, so far reflected from an infinite somewhere, that only such eyes as his could have seen it.
"There was Bosio," she said softly. "He spoke to me the night he died—I could have married him—I should have loved him—perhaps."
If the little phrases were broken, it was not by hesitation; it seemed rather as though what they meant must find each memory to have meaning, one by one, and word by word—and finding, wondered at what had once been true.
And Gianluca smiled, as he lay still, and the lids of his eyes closed peacefully and naturally, opening again with another look. He was too weak to be surprised by what he had only vaguely guessed, from some word she had let fall, but he knew well enough, from her voice and face, that she had never loved Bosio Macomer, nor any other man, dead or living. And Hope, that is ever last to leave a breaking heart, nestled back into her own sweet place, breathing soft things of love, and life, and golden years to be.
"Thank you," he said. "I should not have asked you. It was kind to answer."