"What of Ginevra?" Eckhardt repeated inexorably.
Still there came no answer.
Eckhardt stooped over the prostrate form like a spirit of vengeance descended from on high and so fiercely burned his gaze upon the monk that the latter vainly endeavoured to turn away his face. He could feel those eyes, even though his own were closed.
"You stand in the shadow of death," Eckhardt spoke, "You will never leave this cavern alive! Answer briefly and truthfully,—and I will have your body consigned to consecrated earth and masses said for your soul. Remain obdurate and rot where you lie, till the trumpet blast of resurrection day chases the worms from their loathsome feast!"
The dying man answered with a groan.
"What of Ginevra?" Eckhardt questioned for the third time.
The monk breathed hard. A tremor shook his limbs as he gasped:
"Ginevra—lives."
Eckhardt's hands went to his head. He closed his eyes in mortal agony and for a moment nothing but his heavy breathing was to be heard in the cavern. When he again looked down upon the prostrate man, he saw his lips turn purple, saw the film of death begin to cover his eyes. How much there was to be asked. How brief the time!
"You chanted the Requiem over the body of Ginevra, knowing her to be among the living?"