"Who can tell? She is in the hands of God."
As he spoke, Trenta shot an angry scowl at his friend—he knew her so well. If Enrica died the Guinigi race was doomed—that made her tremble, not affection for Enrica. A word more from the marchesa, and Trenta would have told her this to her face.
"We are all in the hands of God," the marchesa repeated, solemnly, and crossed herself. "I believe little in doctors."
"Still," said Trenta, "if there is no change, it is our duty to send for one. Is there any doctor at Corellia?"
"None nearer than Lucca," she replied. "Send for Fra Pacifico. If he thinks it of any use, a man shall be dispatched to Lucca immediately."
"Surely you will let Count Nobili know the danger Enrica is in?"
"No, no!" cried the marchesa, fiercely. "Count Nobili comes back here to marry Enrica or not at all. I will not have him on any other terms. If the child dies, he will not come. That at least will be a gain."
Even on the brink of death and ruin she could think of this!
"Enrica will not die! she will not die!" sobbed the poor old cavaliere, breaking down all at once. He sank upon a chair and covered his face.
The marchesa rose and placed her hand upon his shoulder. Her heart was bleeding, too, but from another cause. She bore her wounds in silence. To complain was not in the marchesa's nature. It would have increased her suffering rather than have relieved it. Still she pitied her old friend, although no word expressed it; nothing but the pressure of her hand resting upon his shoulder. Trenta's sobs were the only sound that broke the silence.