CHAPTER XV.
Qui sait ce qui peut advenir de la fragilite des femmes?
Qui sait jusq'ou peut aller l'inconstance de ce sable mouvant ?--ALFRED DE MUSSET.
The Italian winter was closing in.

The nights were bitter cold.
Had Michael reached at last the death of love?
Was its strait gate too narrow for him?
After that one night he held his peace, even with himself, even with the walls of his cell.

He did not sleep nor eat.

He had no time to sleep or eat.

He was absorbed in one idea.
Michael was not a thinker.