A sick woman lay on a bed, and a stern dark man sat beside her. "I tell you," said she, "I want a priest, and it is cruel for you to refuse me one."
"Bah! Signora, you are not sick enough for that. Why have a confidant in our affairs? Confession is of no use except to the dying!"
"I am very sick," said she, "and my strength every day decreases!"
"Well, let us come to terms, then, Duchess. You shall have a priest—but you do not intend to make your confession only to him, I know."
"Your old ideas again, Stenio!" said La Felina.
"They are not my ideas. Did you not say once when you were very sick, 'No, I will not die until I am completely avenged. I wish to know whence came the shaft which crushed him. I wish him to curse me as I have cursed him!'"
"True!" said the Duchess, who, as she listened to the Italian, seemed lost in thought. "It is true, I said all that."
"Well, the time is come. You fear you are dying, and would not leave your work incomplete!"
"But if I tell all," said La Felina, "do you fear nothing for yourself?"
"That man is now but a shadow," said Salvatori, "and now in my strong hand I can grasp him, as he once grasped me, with his iron nerves, when he stabbed me. Besides, no one would believe him. Is he not a spy?"