But as the one, in
his being, was alive from head to heel, so the other was dead save in
the thoughts in which he still had a shadowy life. And for the
rest--flesh, blood, and life apart--they were equals. Was Gianluca true?
Taquisara was as honest and loyal as the brave daylight. Was the one
brave? So was the other, in thought and deed. Was Gianluca enduring? So
was Taquisara, and he had the more to endure, the more to fight, the
more to keep down in him.
She knew that he loved her. How it was that she knew it she could not
tell, but sometimes the music of the truth rang in her ears till the
flame shot up in her face and she shut her eyes to hide her soul--a
loud, triumphant music, stately and grand as might herald the marching
of archangels--till her inward cry of terror pierced it, and all was as
still as the grave. Then, for a space, the vision of sin stood dark in
the way, and she turned and fled from it back to Gianluca's side, back
to the care of him, back to his helpless love for her, back to his
pathetic, stricken restfulness, back to the maiden dreams of a life-long
friendship, unbroken as the calm of the summer ocean, perfect as the
cloudless sky of those golden autumn days.
For a time, the dark wraith of sin faded, and there was no music in the
air, and her cheek was cool, while she looked all the world in the face
with the fearless eyes of a child-empress. Again the monotonous, good
day rolled in the same grooves, noiselessly, and surely, as all the days
to come were to roll along, to the end of ends.
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