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 man can really be
measured except by himself. We often believe that they who utter no cry
are the most badly hurt, perhaps because silence has suggestion in it,
and noise has none. No one knows the truth. No one has stood in the fire
that scorches his brother's soul, to tell us which can suffer the more.
Taquisara lay long awake that night, and every word that had passed
between Veronica and him came back to his thoughts.
More than once he rose and, crossing the intermediate room, went to
Gianluca's side. Once the latter was awake, still half dreaming, and
looked up wonderingly into his friend's eyes. He scarcely knew that he
spoke, as his lips moved.
"I am going to die," he said, in a far-off tone.
Taquisara bent over him quickly, trying to smile.
"Nonsense--no--no!" he said cheerfully.
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