He went to Gianluca's room before he went to bed. A small light burned
behind a shade in a corner, and at first he could barely see the white
face on the white pillow. The sick man lay sound asleep, 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.
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