," Basterga replied in a sorrowful voice. "I, too. No wonder I feel
for you. I have not known it long, nor has it proceeded far in my case.
I have even hopes, at least there are times when I have hopes, that the
physicians may be mistaken."

Blondel's small eyes bulged suddenly larger. "In that event?" he cried
hoarsely. "In that event surely----"

"Even in that event I cannot aid you," the big man answered, spreading
out his hands. "I am pledged by the most solemn oath to retain the one
portion I have for the use of the Grand Duke, my patron. And apart from
that oath, the benefits I have received at his hand are such as to give
him a claim second only to my necessity. A claim, Messer Blondel,
which--I say it sorrowfully--I dare not set aside for any private
feeling or private gain."

Blondel rose violently, his hands clawing the air. "And I must die?" he
cried, his voice thick with rage. "I must die because he _may_ be ill?
Because--because----" He stopped, struggling with himself, unable, it
seemed, to articulate. By-and-by it became apparent that the pause had
another origin, for when he spoke he had conquered his passion. "Pardon
me," he said, still hoarsely, but in a different tone--the tone of one
who saw that violence could not help him. "I was forgetting myself.
Life--life is sweet to all, Messer Basterga, and we cannot lightly see
it pass from us. To have life within sight, to know it within this room,
perhaps within reach----"

"Not quite that," Basterga murmured, his eyes wandering to the steel
casket, chained to the wall beside the hearth. "Still, I understand;
and, believe me," he added in a tone of sympathy, "I feel for you,
Messer Blondel. I feel deeply for you."

"Feel?" the Syndic muttered. For an instant his eyes gleamed savagely,
the veins of his temples swelled. "Feel!"

"But what can I do?"

Blondel could have answered, but to what advantage? What could words
profit him, seeing that it was a life for a life, and that, as all that
a man hath he will give for his life, so there is nothing another hath
that he will take for it. Argument was useless; prayer, in view of the
other's confession, beside the mark. The magistrate saw this, and made
an effort to resume his dignity. "We will talk another day," he
murmured, pressing his hand to his brow, "another day!" And he turned to
the door. "You will not mention what I have said to you, Messer
Basterga?"

"Not a syllable," his host answered, as he