People who have kept a secret very long and well, keep it
when they are alone, even when it turns its bones in the narrow grave of
their hearts, reminding them that it is there and would be glad to see
if it could get a vampire's dead life for a night, and come out, and
draw blood.
Taquisara went away and re-entered the castle, walking more slowly than
was his wont. In the narrow court within, he stopped before passing
through the door, and stood a long time staring at a fragment of a
marble tablet with a part of a Roman inscription cut on it, which was
built into the enormous masonry of the main wall and had remained white
while the surrounding blocks had grown black with age. There was no more
apparent reason why he should try to make out the meaning of the
inscription, than why Don Teodoro should play so long with his glasses,
all alone in his room. But Taquisara was not thinking of Don Teodoro. He
had a secret of his own to keep from everybody, and if possible from
himself.
But that was not easy. The thing which had taken hold of him was as
strong as he was and seemed to be watching him, grip for grip, hold for
hold, wrench for wrench. It had not beaten him yet, but he knew that to
yield a hair's breadth would mean a fall, and a bad one. He had almost
relaxed his strength that little, last night, when he had been alone
with Veronica.
He read the letters of the inscription over twenty times, then turned
sharply on his heel and went in, having probably convinced himself that
to waste time over his own thoughts was the worst waste imaginable,
since the more he thought of anything, the more he loved Veronica.
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