"Loves me?" cried Taquisara, his brows suddenly close bent. "Oh no! Unsay that, or—no—Gianluca—how dare you even dream the right to say that of your wife?"
It was beyond his strength to bear.
"She is not my wife," said Gianluca. "You have told me so—she is not my wife. She has done what no other living woman could have done, to be my wife and to love me. But she is not my wife, and what I say is true, and right as well, your right and hers.
"No—not that—not hers." Taquisara turned half round, against the table, where he stood, and his voice was low and broken.
"Yes, hers. You will know it soon—when I have taken my love to my grave, and left her yours on earth."
"Gianluca!"
Taquisara could not speak, beyond that, but he laid his hand upon his friend's arm and clutched it, as though to hold him back. His dark eyes darkened, and in them were the terrible tears that strong men shed once in life, and sometimes once again, but very seldom more.
Gianluca's thin fingers folded upon the hand that held him.
"You have been very true to me," he said. "She will be quite safe with you."
For a long time they were both silent. It began to rain, and the big drops beat against the windows, melancholy as the muffled drum of a funeral march, and the grey morning light grew still more dim.