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.

He was loyal to the core of his sound soul.  Whatever became of him, Gianluca was to be first in his actions, wherever Veronica might stand in his heart, and he had the strength to do all that he meant to do.  He would do it.  He knew that he should do it, and he was glad, for his honour, that he could do it.

He had avoided all meetings, as much as possible, from the first, going rarely to Bianca’s house, and then not talking with Veronica when he could help it.  For each time that he saw her, he felt that soft mystery of attraction in which great passion begins; that something which touches and draws gently on, and presses and draws again more gently, yet with stronger power, growing great on nothings by day and night, till it drives the senses slowly mad, and overtops the soul, and pricks, then goads, then drives—­then, at the last, tears men up like straws in its enormous arms, rising on sudden wings to outstrip wind and whirlwind in the wild race that ends in death or blinding joy, or reckless ruin of honour, worse than any death.

He had felt the growing danger at every one of their few meetings, and, being simple, he mistrusted himself to be what other men were.  But in that, he was not like the many.  He was not of the kind and temper to break down in loyalty, and he could still bear much more.  Under strong pressure, he had come with Gianluca to the gates of Muro, and he had done his best to get away at once.  Fate had been against him.  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.