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
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.
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