e heaving of his chest induced by painful
respiration. And leaning over his poor dying face stood Benedetta,
sharing his sufferings, and mastered by such impotent grief that she also
was unrecognisable, so white, so distracted by anguish, that it seemed as
if death were gradually taking her at the same time as it was taking him.

In the recess by the window whither Cardinal Boccanera had led Doctor
Giordano, a few words were exchanged in low tones. "He is lost, is he
not?"

The doctor made the despairing gesture of one who is vanquished: "Alas!
yes. I must warn your Eminence that in an hour all will be over."

A short interval of silence followed. "And the same malady as Gallo, is
it not?" asked the Cardinal; and as the doctor trembling and averting his
eyes did not answer he added: "At all events of an infectious fever!"

Giordano well understood what the Cardinal thus asked of him: silence,
the crime for ever hidden away for the sake of the good renown of his
mother, the Church. And there could be no loftier, no more tragical
grandeur than that of this old man of seventy, still so erect and
sovereign, who would neither suffer a slur to be cast upon his spiritual
family, nor consent to his human family being dragged into the inevitable
mire of a sensational murder trial. No, no, there must be none of that,
there must be silence, the eternal silence in which all becomes
forgotten.

At last the doctor bowed with his gentle air of discretion. "Evidently,
of an infectious fever as your Eminence so well says," he replied.

Two big tears then again appeared in Boccanera's eyes. Now that he had
screened the Deity from attack in the person of the Church, his heart as
a man again bled. He begged the doctor to make a supreme effort, to
attempt the impossible; but, pointing to the dying man with trembling
hands, Giordano shook his head. For his own father, his own mother he
could have done nothing. Death was there. So why weary, why torture a
dying man, whose sufferings he would only have increased? And then, as
the Cardinal, finding the end so near at hand, thought of his sister
Serafina, and lamented that she would not be able to kiss her nephew for
the last time if she lingered at the Vatican, the doctor offered to fetch
her in his carriage which was waiting below. It would not take him more
than twenty minutes, said he, and he would be back in time for the end,
should he then be needed.

Left to himself in the window r