There he lay, her only friend, the companion of her life since she had known life; the man who in that very room, but two nights since, had spoken such kind words to her that her tears had flowed--the tears that would not flow now; the man who but a moment since was railing at her in a paroxysm of rage--whose anger had melted at her first word of defence, who had fallen at her feet to ask forgiveness, and to declare once more, for the last time, that he loved her! Her friend, her companion, her husband--had he heard her answer, that she forgave him freely?
He could not be dead--it was impossible.

A moment ago he had been speaking to her.

She went forward again and kneeled beside him.
"Onofrio," she said very gently, "you are not dead--you heard me ?" She gazed down for a moment at the motionless features.

Womanly thoughtful, she moved his head a little, and straightened the wig upon his poor forehead.

Then, in an instant, she realised all, and with a wild cry of despair fell prostrate upon his body in an agony of passionate weeping.