"No doubt it was distressing to witness--but you could not have been very sorry--he was an old man, and, though it is a platitude not worth repeating--we must all die." "Sorry!" exclaimed Ferrari, talking almost more to himself than to me.
"I was glad! He was an old scoundrel, deeply dyed in every sort of social villainy.

No--I was not sorry, only as I watched him in his frantic struggle, fighting furiously for each fresh gasp of breath--I thought--I know not why--of Fabio." Profoundly astonished, but concealing my astonishment under an air of indifference, I began to laugh.
"Upon my word, Ferrari--pardon me for saying so, but the air of Rome seems to have somewhat obscured your mind! I confess I cannot follow your meaning." He sighed uneasily.

"I dare say not! I scarce can follow it myself.

But if it was so hard for an old man to writhe himself out of life, what must it have been for Fabio! We were students together; we used to walk with our arms round each other's necks like school-girls, and he was young and full of vitality--physically stronger, too, than I am.

He must have battled for life with every nerve and sinew stretched to almost breaking." He stopped and shuddered.