"And what did she die of? of fever?"
"No," said the Roman shrugging her shoulders; and then she added, in the slow musical drawl of the Roman peasant:
"Di passione."
The procession had passed, the chanting had died away; the blackbird was singing lustily once more; they went on their way--Truyn first, with Zinka hanging wearily on to his arm, behind them Gabrielle and the general.
"Passione! is that a Roman illness?" she asked with her insatiable inquisitiveness.
"No, it occurs in most parts of the world," said the general drily.
"But only among poor people, I suppose?" said the child.
"No, it is known to the better classes too, but it is not called by the same name," said the old man with some bitterness, more to himself than to Gabrielle.
"Then it is wrong--a shameful thing to die of?" she asked with wide, astonished eyes.
Suddenly the general perceived that Zinka was listening; her head drooped as she heard the child's heedless catechism. He, under the circumstances, would have felt paralyzed--he would not have known what to say to the poor crushed soul; but not so Truyn. He turned to his companion and said something in a low tone. What, the general could not hear, but it must have been something kind and helpful--something which, without any direct reference to the past, conveyed his unalterable respect and regard, for she answered him almost brightly. Then he went on talking of trifles, remembering little incidents of his boyhood, characteristic anecdotes of his parents, and such small matters as may divert a sick and weary spirit, till, when they parted at the door of the palazetto, Zinka was smiling. "That he has the brains of a genius I will not say, but he has genius of heart, I dare swear!" thought the soldier.