Francesco glanced from one to the other: he understood.
He had been sold; his youth, his life bartered away, like the life of a slave.
Fearing an outburst, the elder Villani turned to his son.
"You had best retire and seek your rest, Francesco," he said in a voice strangely mingled with concern and dread. "Fra Girolamo and I will arrange these matters between us. Leave us in good faith. You will depart on the morrow! I wish I knew you safe in the cloister even now! Go, my son,—and peace be with you!"—
Francesco turned silently to leave the room. Presently something, a quiver of feeling, stopped him. He hesitated for a moment, then he returned to the bedside, bending over it and gazing sadly into his father's face.
"I shall see you again in the morning?" he asked gently.
"By the will of God," the sick man replied with feeble voice.
His head had sunk upon his breast. Francesco crossed the room and was gone. A moment after they heard a loud, jarring laugh without. Then all was still.
The elder Villani and the monk exchanged looks in silence. For some time neither spoke. When the silence was broken at last, it was in a way which revealed the close touch between the minds of these two.
"Was the struggle great?" questioned the monk.