another once conquering race.

Gianluca was evidently ill and weak, though few physicians could have
defined the cause of his weakness. He moved easily enough when he rose
to greet his friend, but there was a mortal languor about him, and an
evident reluctance to move again when he had resumed his seat in the
sun. He was muffled in a thickly wadded silk coat of a dark colour. His
fair, straight hair was brushed away from his thin, bluish temples, and
the golden young beard could not conceal the emaciation of his throat
when his head leaned against the back of his easy-chair.

Taquisara sat down and looked at him, lighted a black cigar and looked
again, got up, stirred the fire and then went to the window.

"You are worse to-day," he said, looking out. "What has happened?" He
turned again, for the answer.

"It is all over," said Gianluca. "My father was there last night. She is
betrothed to Bosio Macomer."

His voice sank low, and his head fell forward a little, so that his chin
rested upon his folded hands. Taquisara uttered an exclamation of
surprise, and bit the end of his cigar.

"She? To marry Bosio Macomer? No--no--I do not believe it."

"Ask my father," said Gianluca, without raising his eyes. "Bosio was
there, in the room, when they told my father the news."

"No doubt," said Taquisara, beginning to walk up and down. "No doubt,"