he repeated. "But--" He lit his cigar instead of finishing the sentence,
and his eyes were thoughtful.

"But--what?" asked his friend, dejectedly. "If it had not been true,
they would not have said it. It is all over."

"Life, you mean? I doubt that. Nothing is over, for nothing is done.
They are not married yet, are they?"

"No, of course not!"

"Then they may never marry."

"Who can prevent it? You? I? My father? It is over, I tell you. There is
no hope. I will see her once more, and then I shall die. But I must see
her once more. You must help me to see her."

"Of course," answered Taquisara. "But what strange people you are!" he
exclaimed, after a moment's pause. "Who can understand you? You are
dying for love of her. That is curious, in the first place. I understand
killing for love, but not dying oneself, just by folding one's hands and
looking at the stars and repeating her name. Then, you do nothing. You
do not say, 'She shall not marry Macomer, because I, I who speak, will
prevent it, and get her for myself.' No. Because some one has said that
she will marry him, you feel sure that she will, and that ends the
question. For the word of a man or a woman, all is to be finished. You
are all contemplation, no action--all heart, no hands--all love, no
anger! You deserve to die for love. I am sorry that I like you."

"You always talk in that way!" said Gianluca, with a wearily sad