"If you were in my place," said Gianluca, "you would cut your throat rather than ruin the life of the woman you loved, by tying your misery to her for life, a load for her to carry."
"Do not say such things!" exclaimed the Sicilian, turning suddenly from the table and resuming his walk. "You are mad!"
"No—not mad. But not cowardly either. There is not much left of me, but what there is shall not be afraid. I am not truly married to her. I will not be. I will not die with that on my soul."
"Gianluca—for God's sake do not say such things!" Taquisara turned upon him, staring.
He sat in his deep chair, his fair angel head thrown back, the dark blue eyes bright, brave, and daring—all the rest, dead.
"I say them, and I mean them," he answered. "I love her very much. I love her enough for that. I love her more than you do."
"Than I?" Taquisara's voice almost broke, as the blow struck him, but there was no fear in his eyes either. He drew a breath then, and spoke strong words. "Now may Christ forget me in the hour of death, if I have not been true to you!"
"And me and mine if I blast your life and hers," came back the unflinching answer.
A deep silence fell upon them both. At last Gianluca spoke again, and his voice sank to another tone.
"She loves you, too," he said.