The image of
Maria Ferres flashed across his mind; his heart beat fast, he thought of
what it would be to hold her hands in his, to lean his head upon her
breast, to feel that she was consoling him without words, by her pity
alone. This longing for pity, for a refuge, was like the last struggle
of a soul that will not be content to perish. He bent his head and
entered the house without turning again to look at the night.
Terenzio was waiting up for him and followed him to the bedroom, where
there was a fire.
'Will the Signor Conte go to bed at once?' he asked.
'No, Terenzio, bring me some tea,' replied his master, sitting down
before the fire and stretching out his hands to the blaze.
He was shivering all over with a little nervous tremor.
'The Signor Conte is cold?' asked Terenzio, hastening with affectionate
interest to stir up the fire and put on fresh logs.
He was an old servant of the house of Sperelli, having served Andrea's
father for many years, and his devotion for the son reached the pitch of
idolatry. No human being seemed to him so handsome, so noble, so worthy
of devotion. He belonged to that ideal race which furnished faithful
retainers to the romance writers of old, but differed from the servants
of romance in that he spoke little, never offered advice, and concerned
himself with no other business than that of carrying out his master's
orders.
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