Then a
horrible delusion began to take possession of him; he fancied that
the dead man was beginning to turn his head slowly, almost
imperceptibly, towards him. Those closed eyes would open and look
him in the face, a supernatural voice would speak his name. As on
the previous afternoon the cold perspiration began to trickle from
his brow. He was on the point of crying aloud with terror, when
the man next to him rose. In an instant he was on his feet. Both
bent again, crossed themselves, and retired. Meschini stumbled and
caught at his companion's arm, but succeeded in gaining the door.
As he passed out, his face was so discomposed that San Giacinto
looked down upon him with increased compassion, then followed him
a few steps and laid his hand on his shoulder. The librarian
started violently and stood still.
"He was a good friend to you, Signor Meschini," said the big man
kindly. "But take heart, you shall not be forgotten."
The dreaded moment had come, and it had been very terrible, but
San Giacinto's tone was reassuring. He could not have suspected
anything, though the servants said that he was an inscrutable man,
profound in his thoughts and fearful in his anger. He was the one
of all the family whom Meschini most feared.
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