He had avoided all meetings, as much as possible, from the first, going rarely to Bianca's house, and then not talking with Veronica when he could help it. For each time that he saw her, he felt that soft mystery of attraction in which great passion begins; that something which touches and draws gently on, and presses and draws again more gently, yet with stronger power, growing great on nothings by day and night, till it drives the senses slowly mad, and overtops the soul, and pricks, then goads, then drives—then, at the last, tears men up like straws in its enormous arms, rising on sudden wings to outstrip wind and whirlwind in the wild race that ends in death or blinding joy, or reckless ruin of honour, worse than any death.
He had felt the growing danger at every one of their few meetings, and, being simple, he mistrusted himself to be what other men were. But in that, he was not like the many. He was not of the kind and temper to break down in loyalty, and he could still bear much more. Under strong pressure, he had come with Gianluca to the gates of Muro, and he had done his best to get away at once. Fate had been against him. He was still strong, and could face fate alone. He did not pine, and waste bodily, as Gianluca had done. But he turned his eyes away when he could, and spent his hours out of danger when he might, waiting for the moment when he should be free to go and live his own life alone, husbanding the strength which was not lacking in him, setting his teeth hard to bear the pain,—a simple, brave, and loyal man, caught in fate's grip, but silently unyielding to the last.
It was his nature, to suffer without complaint, when he must suffer at all. No one can tell whether those feel pain most who show least what they feel. The measure of pain is always man, and no man can really be measured except by himself. We often believe that they who utter no cry are the most badly hurt, perhaps because silence has suggestion in it, and noise has none. No one knows the truth. No one has stood in the fire that scorches his brother's soul, to tell us which can suffer the more.
Taquisara lay long awake that night, and every word that had passed between Veronica and him came back to his thoughts.
More than once he rose and, crossing the intermediate room, went to Gianluca's side. Once the latter was awake, still half dreaming, and looked up wonderingly into his friend's eyes. He scarcely knew that he spoke, as his lips moved.
"I am going to die," he said, in a far-off tone.
Taquisara bent over him quickly, trying to smile.
"Nonsense—no—no!" he said cheerfully. "You have been dreaming—you are better."
"Yes—I am dreaming—let me sleep," answered the sick man, hardly articulating the words.
And in a moment, he was asleep again. Taquisara listened to his breathing, bending down a moment longer. Then he went softly away. He himself slept a little, but it seemed long before the morning broke.