“The powder; is it not time?”
“No; go away.”
She took a turn round the room and went away as quietly as possible. Caterina, hugging her shawl, had remained standing. Now she realised all that she saw and heard; indeed, sensation had become so acute that the noise of the words hurt her, the light dazzled her, the sick man’s hectic features became visible; she saw the knife-like profile, the thin protruding chin, the skeleton chest, the miserable legs. She saw, felt, and understood too much.
“Come nearer and be seated. I can neither turn nor raise my voice. It might bring on hæmorrhage again.”
She took a chair and sat down, facing the bed, so that she could see Alberto’s face, crossed her hands on her lap, and waited. He made an effort to swallow the bit of snow, then with all the despair of which a hoarse, low voice is capable said to her:
“You’ve heard, eh?”
Her eyelids quivered two or three times, but she found nothing to say to him.
Alberto, who was lying sunk in his pillows, with half-closed eyes and upturned chin, gazed vaguely at the white curtains instead of at her.
“I should never have suspected such treason. Would you have suspected it? No; of course not.”
Her gesture signified, “No.” Her inert will had no power over her nerves, so that she had absolutely no strength wherewith to articulate.