He came and stood beside the bed.
Paolo had not moved since the surgeon had left; he was lying on his back, propped by pillows so that his face was towards the light.

He was pale now, for the flush that had been in his cheeks had subsided; his eyelids, which had been half open, had dropped and closed, so that he seemed to be sleeping peacefully, ready to wake at the slightest sound.
Marzio stood and looked at him.

This was the man he had hated through so many years of boyhood and manhood--the man who had faced him and opposed him at every step--who had stood up boldly before him in his own house to defend what he believed to be right.

This was Paolo, whom he had nearly killed that morning.

Marzio's right hand felt the iron tool in the pocket of his blouse, and his fingers trembled as he touched it, while his long arms twitched nervously from the shoulder to the elbow.
He took it out, looked at it, and at the sick man's face.