, breathing
almost inaudibly, one light hand lying upon the coverlet, the other
hidden. Gradually, as Taquisara looked, his eyes became accustomed to
the light, and he gazed earnestly at his sleeping friend. He saw the
dark rings come out beneath the drooping lids, and the paleness of the
parted lips, and the terrible emaciation of the thin hand.

But there was life still, and hope. Hope that the man might still live
and stand among men, hope that he might yet marry Veronica Serra--and be
happy. In the half-darkness, Taquisara set his teeth, biting hard, as
though he would have bitten through iron, lest a sharp breath should
escape him and disturb the sleeper's rest.

That frail thing, that ghost, that airy remnant of a man, lay there,
alive in name, between Taquisara and the mere right to think of his own
happiness; and next to the reality of the shadow of his dream, he loved
best on earth this shadow of reality that would not die. For he loved
Veronica with all his heart, and after her, Gianluca della Spina. Above
both stood honour.

He knew that he was loyal and true as he stood there, and that there was
not in the inmost inward heart of him a mean, double-faced wish that
his friend might die there, peacefully, and leave to the winning of the
strong what the weak had wooed in vain. He had spoken the truth when he
had said that for his friend's life he was giving all he had, when he
did his best to persuade Veronica that she must marry the dying man, in
the bare hope of saving him while there was yet time. He had done his
best, though it was no wonder that there was no conviction, but only
vehemence, in his tone. It had been different on that day, now long ago,
when he had first spoken for Gianluca in the garden. He had not loved
her then. She had been no more to him than any other woman. But even on
that day, when he had left her, he had half guessed that he might love
her if opportunity gave possibility the right of way. He had guessed it,
and even to guess it was to fear it, for Gianluca's sake. He was not
quixotic. Had he been first, death or life, he would not have given
another room at her side, had that or that man been twenty times his
friend or his brother. Even if it had been a little otherwise, if
Gianluca had not confided in him from the beginning, and had stood out
as any other suitor for her hand, Taquisara, as he loved her now, would
hardly have drawn back because his friend had been before him. But