Gianluca's eyes opened, and with sudden pressure he grasped the hand that had so long held his, believing because he held it and felt the flesh and blood and the warmth in his own shadowy hold.
"Veronica—love!" She would not have thought that he could press her fingers so hard, weak as he was.
The word smote her, even then, with a small icy chill, and though she smiled, there was a shadow in her face. Again he doubted.
"Veronica—for the love of God—you are not deceiving me, to save my life?" The vision of despair rose in his eyes.
"Deceive you? I?" she cried, with sudden energy. "Indeed, indeed, I mean it, as I said it."
"Yes—but—but if, to-morrow—" Again his voice was failing, and she was hand to hand with death, for him.
"No! There shall be no to-morrow for that—it shall be now!"
"Now? To-day? Now?"
He seemed to rise and sink, and sink and rise again, on the low-surging waves of his life's ebbing tide.
"Yes—now!" she answered. "This moment Don Teodoro is in the house—I will call him—let me go for a moment—only one moment!"