"What would you have me do?" queried Francesco. His voice was low and fraught with a great pity for the dying man.
A gleam passed over the latter's face. At last he had to put the question. All hung upon that moment, all;—his eternal happiness and damnation. Should he reveal his request at once, with nothing to allay its harshness?
A sudden rush of pain decided the matter.
"You ask me what you should do?" he replied slowly. "There is but one thing to do,—there is but one choice. It is for you to live the life in which I have failed. Take the vows. Become a monk, content to live apart from men, alone with tomes and prayers and God,—removed from the temptation which caused my fall!"
The sick man drew a short and painful breath, scarcely lower in sound than three words spoken close by his side, spoken as with the voice of a phantom.
"Become a monk!"—
The elder Villani did not stir. He reclined in the cushions, his eyes fixed upon his son with a pitiful look of pleading, which might do far more than words, to prepare the youth's mind for such a thought.
Slowly, almost unconsciously, Francesco moved away from the bed. His gaze wandered aimlessly about the room. His ideas refused to concentrate themselves upon anything. It was too monstrous to conceive! It was past belief, past understanding,—an ill-timed jest perhaps—but yet a jest!
And he burst out with a laugh in which there was no thought of mirth.
"A monk!"