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I steadied myself against the door-post and stood staring at him without a word.

“What’s the matter?” asked the doctor who was bending over the bed. I stammered that the sick man was an old friend.

“He wouldn’t know his oldest friend just now,” said the doctor. “The fever’s on him; but it will go down toward sunset.”

I sat down at the head of the bed and took Roberto’s hand in mine.

“Is he going to die?” I asked.

“I don’t believe so; but he wants nursing.”

“I will nurse him.”

The doctor nodded and went out. I sat in the little room, with Roberto’s burning hand in mine. Gradually his skin cooled, the fingers grew quiet, and the flush faded from his sallow cheek-bones. Toward dusk he looked up at me and smiled.

“Egidio,” he said quietly.

I administered the sacrament, which he received with the most fervent devotion; then he fell into a deep sleep.

During the weeks that followed I had no time to ask myself the meaning of it all. My one business was to keep him alive if I could. I fought the fever day and night, and at length it yielded. For the most part he raved or lay unconscious; but now and then he knew me for a moment, and whispered “Egidio” with a look of peace.

I had stolen many hours from my duties to nurse him; and as soon as the danger was past I had to go back to my parish work. Then it was that I began to ask myself what had brought him to America; but I dared not face the answer.

On the fourth day I snatched a moment from my work and climbed to his room. I found him sitting propped against his pillows, weak as a child but clear-eyed and quiet. I ran forward, but his look stopped me.

“Signor parocco,” he said, “the doctor tells me that I owe my life to your nursing, and I have to thank you for the kindness you have shown to a friendless stranger.”

“A stranger?” I gasped.

He looked at me steadily. “I am not aware that we have met before,” he said.

For a moment I thought the fever was on him; but a second glance convinced me that he was master of himself.

“Roberto!” I cried, trembling.

“You have the advantage of me,” he said civilly. “But my name is Roberti, not Roberto.”

The floor swam under me and I had to lean against the wall.

“You are not Count Roberto Siviano of Milan?”

“I am Tommaso de Roberti, professor of Italian, from Modena.”

“And you have never seen me before?”

“Never that I know of.”

“Were you never at Siviano, on the lake of Iseo?” I faltered.

He said calmly: “I am unacquainted with that part of Italy.”

My heart grew cold and I was silent.

“You mistook me for a friend, I suppose?” he added.

“Yes,” I cried, “I mistook you for a friend;” and with that I fell on my knees by his bed and cried like a child.

Suddenly I felt a touch on my shoulder. “Egidio,” said he in a broken voice, “look up.”

I raised my eyes, and there was his old smile above me, and we clung to each other without a word. Presently, however, he drew back, and put me quietly aside.

“Sit over there, Egidio. My bones are like water and I am not good for much talking yet.”

“Let us wait, Roberto. Sleep now–we can talk tomorrow.”

“No. What I have to say must be said at once.” He examined me thoughtfully. “You have a parish here in New York?”

I assented.

“And my work keeps me here. I have pupils. It is too late to make a change.”

“A change?”

He continued to look at me calmly. “It would be difficult for me,” he explained, “to find employment in a new place.”

“But why should you leave here?”

“I shall have to,” he returned deliberately, “if you persist in recognizing in me your former friend Count Siviano.”

“Roberto!”

He lifted his hand. “Egidio,” he said, “I am alone here, and without friends. The companionship, the sympathy of my parish priest would be a consolation in this strange city; but it must not be the companionship of the parocco of Siviano. You understand?”