The man nodded assent, and together they strode out into the street.
"He is in fearsome pain,—about to die," he said. "He is very anxious about his soul's salvation."—
Raniero Frangipani about to die! Raniero Frangipani anxious about his soul! The idea touched Francesco with grim humor. Strange thoughts came to him, as they hastened through the lonely streets. The bright vision of the night shone before his eyes, alluring, beckoning, vanishing.
The vision vanished for good in the chamber of death. No other image could hold its own before the face of Raniero. The brow was damp; the unshaven lips were drawn back from the teeth, giving the countenance a sinister aspect. The eyes not only glared, but searched.
A scared-looking priest was in the room. He hailed Francesco with relief.
"Thank God, you are come," he exclaimed. "I am summoned to hear the confession, but the patient will not make it till he has seen you—Messer Capitano, I withdraw—" he stammered, for the awful eyes had turned in his direction and the lips had uttered a sound.
Raniero turned painfully to Francesco, satisfaction, anxiety and something else in his face.
"Give me the blessing!" he snarled. "Give it quick!"—
Francesco did not at once comply. He was looking at Raniero, pity and horror, repugnance and tenderness at war in his face.
"Must I ask twice?"