hanged the subject, fearing that he had already said a
little too much.

"I believe Guido may recover, now that she is dead," Lamberti said, when
he heard the story.

The change in Guido's state came one night about eleven o'clock, when
Lamberti and the French nun were standing beside the bed, looking into
his face and wondering whether he would open his eyes before he died. He
had been lying motionless for many hours, turned a little on one side,
and his breathing was very faint. There seemed to be hardly any life
left in the wasted body.

"I think he will die about midnight," Lamberti whispered to the nurse.

The good nun, who thought so too, bent down and spoke gently close to
the sick man's ear. She could not bear to let him go out of life without
a Christian word, though Lamberti had told her again and again that his
friend believed in nothing beyond death.

"You are dying," she said, softly and clearly. "Think of God! Try to
think of God, Signor d'Este!"

That was all she could find to say, for she was a simple soul and not
eloquent; but perhaps it might do some good. She knelt down then, by the
bedside.

"Look!" cried Lamberti in a low voice, bending forwards.

Guido had opened his eyes, and they were wide and grave.

"Thank you," he said, after a few seconds, faintly but distinctly. "You
are very kind. But I am not going to die."

The quiet eyes closed, and the mystery of life went on in silence. That
was all he had to say. The nun knelt down again and folded her hands,
but in less than a minute she rose and busied herself noiselessly,
preparing something in a glass. It would be the last time that anything
would pass his lips, she thought, and it might be quite useless to give
it to him, but it must be ready. Many and many a time she had heard the
dying declare quietly that they were out of danger. Lamberti stood
motionless by the bedside, thinking much the same things and feeling as
if his own heart were slowly turning into lead.

He stood there a long time, convinced that it was useless to send for
the doctor, who always came about midnight, for Guido would probably be
dead before he came. He would stop breathing presently, and that would
be the end. The lids would open a little, but the eyes would not see,
there would be a little white froth on the parted lips, and that would
be the end. Guido would know the great secret then.

But the breathing did not cease, and the eyes did not open again; on