The chanting choir had gone.

The priest had closed his pale fingers upon the crucifix, when he desired to be left alone with his wife.
She drew near timidly and stood beside his bed.
He bent his tranquil, kindly eyes upon her.
"Good-bye, my Francesca," he said.

"May God and his angels protect you, and give you peace." A belated compunction seized her.
"I wish I had been a better wife to you, Andrea," she said brokenly, laying her hand on his.
He made the ghost of a courteous, deprecating gesture, and raised her hand to his lips.

The effort exhausted him.

He closed his eyes and his hand fell out of hers.
Through the open window came a sudden waft of hot carnations, a long drawn breath of the rapturous Italian spring.
It reached the duke.