Gianluca had come to him, told him all; asked his advice, taken his
help--all that, when Veronica had still been nothing to Taquisara--less
than nothing, in a way, because she was such a great heiress, and he
would have hesitated before asking for her hand, being but a poor
Sicilian gentleman of good repute, few acres, and old blood.

He was loyal to the core of his sound soul. Whatever became of him,
Gianluca was to be first in his actions, wherever Veronica might stand
in his heart, and he had the strength to do all that he meant to do. He
would do it. He knew that he should do it, and he was glad, for his
honour, that he could do it.

He had avoided all meetings, as much as possible, from the first, going
rarely to Bianca's house, and then not talking with Veronica when he
could help it. For each time that he saw her, he felt that soft mystery
of attraction in which great passion begins; that something which
touches and draws gently on, and presses and draws again more gently,
yet with stronger power, growing great on nothings by day and night,
till it drives the senses slowly mad, and overtops the soul, and pricks,
then goads, then drives--then, at the last, tears men up like straws in
its enormous arms, rising on sudden wings to outstrip wind and whirlwind
in the wild race that ends in death or blinding joy, or reckless ruin of
honour, worse than any death.

He had felt the growing danger at every one of their few meetings, and,
being simple, he mistrusted himself to be what other men were. But in
that, he was not like the many. He was not of the kind and temper to
break down in loyalty, and he could still bear much more. Under strong
pressure, he had come with Gianluca to the gates of Muro, and he had
done his best to get away at once. Fate had been against him. He was
still strong, and could face fate alone. He did not pine, and waste
bodily, as Gianluca had done. But he turned his eyes away when he could,
and spent his hours out of danger when he might, waiting for the moment
when he should be free to go and live his own life alone, husbanding the
strength which was not lacking in him, setting his teeth hard to bear
the pain,--a simple, brave, and loyal man, caught in fate's grip, but
silently unyielding to the last.

It was his nature, to suffer without complaint, when he must suffer at
all. No one can tell whether those feel pain most who show least what
they feel. The measure of pain is always man, and no