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“Ah, Vannina,” I said; “but she is dead, your excellency.”

“Dead!” She turned white and the purse dropped from her hand. I picked it up and held it out to her, but she put back my hand. “That is for masses, then,” she said; and with that she moved away toward the house.

I walked on to the gate; but before I had reached it I heard her step behind me.

“Don Egidio!” she called; and I turned back.

“You are coming to say mass in the chapel to-morrow morning?”

“That is the Count’s wish.”

She wavered a moment. “I am not well enough to walk up to the village this afternoon,” she said at length. “Will you come back later and hear my confession here?”

“Willingly, your excellency.”

“Come at sunset then.” She looked at me gravely. “It is a long time since I have been to confession,” she added.

“My child, the door of heaven is always unlatched.”

She made no answer and I went my way.

I returned to the villa a little before sunset, hoping for a few words with Roberto. I felt with Faustina that we were on the eve of war, and the uncertainty of the outlook made me treasure every moment of my friend’s company. I knew he had been busy all day, but hoped to find that his preparations were ended and that he could spare me a half hour. I was not disappointed; for the servant who met me asked me to follow him to the Count’s apartment. Roberto was sitting alone, with his back to the door, at a table spread with maps and papers. He stood up and turned an ashen face on me.

“Roberto!” I cried, as if we had been boys together.

He signed to me to be seated.

“Egidio,” he said suddenly, “my wife has sent for you to confess her?”

“The Countess met me on my way home this morning and expressed a wish to receive the sacrament to-morrow morning with you and Donna Marianna, and I promised to return this afternoon to hear her confession.”

Roberto sat silent, staring before him as though he hardly heard. At length he raised his head and began to speak.

“You have noticed lately that my wife has been ailing?” he asked.

“Every one must have seen that the Countess is not in her usual health. She has seemed nervous, out of spirits–I have fancied that she might be anxious about your excellency.”

He leaned across the table and laid his wasted hand on mine. “Call me Roberto,” he said.

There was another pause before he went on. “Since I saw you this morning,” he said slowly, “something horrible has happened. After you left I sent for Andrea and Gemma to tell them the news from Vienna and the probability of my being summoned to Milan before night. You know as well as I that we have reached a crisis. There will be fighting within twenty-four hours, if I know my people; and war may follow sooner than we think. I felt it my duty to leave my affairs in Andrea’s hands, and to entrust my wife to his care. Don’t look startled,” he added with a faint smile. “No reasonable man goes on a journey without setting his house in order; and if things take the turn I expect it may be some months before you see me back at Siviano.–But it was not to hear this that I sent for you.” He pushed his chair aside and walked up and down the room with his short limping step. “My God!” he broke out wildly, “how can I say it?–When Andrea had heard me, I saw him exchange a glance with his wife, and she said with that infernal sweet voice of hers, ‘Yes, Andrea, it is our duty.’

“‘Your duty?’ I asked. ‘What is your duty?’

“Andrea wetted his lips with his tongue and looked at her again; and her look was like a blade in his hand.