At last the Piccinino spied two frocks at the bottom of the ravine.
"There are your companions," he said to the monk, leading him in that direction. "They have gone ahead; and I can well imagine that they fled from the sickening spectacle of our victory. But their delicacy doesn't interfere with their being gallant fellows. Who are they, pray? I saw them fighting like lions. They wear the dress of your order; but I cannot understand how two such heroes can have been living in your convent and I not know them."
Fra Angelo did not reply; with his bloodshot eyes he was trying to make out the two monks. He recognized the frocks he had given Michel and Magnani, but he could not understand their inaction, and the indifference with which they held themselves aloof from the others. One of them seemed to be seated, the other kneeling by his side. Fra Angelo hurried down into the ravine so eagerly and recklessly that again and again he nearly fell over the precipice.
The Piccinino, who was severely wounded, but strong of will and stoical in his suffering, followed him, careless of his own safety, and they soon reached the foot of the precipice, a spot shut in on all sides, and terribly solitary, with a mountain torrent flowing at their feet. As they had been compelled to make a detour about several steep cliffs, they had lost sight of the two monks, and the darkness that still prevailed in the depths of the gorge made it difficult for them to find their way.
They dared not call; but at last they discovered the men they were seeking. One was sitting on the ground, supported by the arms of the other. Fra Angelo rushed forward and pushed back the hood that first met his hand. He saw Magnani's handsome face, darkened by the shadow of death; his blood was pouring out upon the ground; Michel was drenched with it and felt that his strength was giving way, although he had no other wound than that caused by his intense and intolerable sorrow at his inability to help his friend, and at the feeling that he was dying in his arms.
Fra Angelo tried to assist the noble-hearted artisan, but Magnani gently put away the hand with which he would have touched his wound.
"Let me die in peace, padre," he said, in a voice so faint that the monk was obliged to put his ear to the dying man's lips to hear what he said. "I am happy that I am able to bid you good-bye. You will tell Michel's mother and sister that I died defending him; but do not let Michel know it! He will take care of my family, and you will console them. We won the victory, did we not," he said to the Piccinino, glancing at him with a lifeless eye and not recognizing him.
"O Mila!" exclaimed the Piccinino involuntarily, "you would have been a brave man's wife!"
"Where are you, Michel? I cannot see you any more," said Magnani, feeling for his friend with trembling hands. "We are safe here, aren't we? at the gates of Catania, of course? You will soon embrace your mother! Ah! yes, I hear the murmur of the naiad; the sound revives me; the water flows into my wound—cold as ice, but very soothing."
"Live to see my mother and sister!" cried Michel. "Ah! you shall live, we will never part!"