"I wish I had not to leave you to-night, Stelio," confessed the faithful brother, who was also invaded by a peculiar melancholy. "When I am with you, I breathe more freely, and live a swifter life."
Stelio was silent. The wind had abated somewhat. The brown church and the square tower of naked brick seemed to be praying silently to the stars.
"Do you know the green column that stands in San Giacomo dall' Orio?" Daniele resumed, intending to hold his friend a little longer, because he dreaded to say farewell. "What sublimity! It is like the fossilized condensation of an immense green forest. In following its innumerable veins, the eye travels in a dream through sylvan mysteries. When I look at it I fancy myself visiting Sila and Ercinna."
Stelio knew the column. One day Perdita had leaned long against the precious shaft, contemplating the magic frieze of gold that curves above the canvas of Bassano, obscuring it.
"To dream—always to dream," he sighed, with a return of that bitter impatience which had suggested sneering words to him when he had come on the boat from the Lido. "To live on relics! Think of Dandolo, who overthrew the column and an empire at the same time, and who preferred to remain doge when he might have become emperor. Perhaps he lived more than you, who wander in fancy through forests when you examine the marble he pillaged. Good-by, Daniele."
"I shall stop at the Palazzo Vendramin for news," said the faithful brother.
These words recalled afresh the thought of the great ailing heart, the weight of the hero in their arms, the terrible removal.
"He has conquered—he can die," said Stelio.