They dared not call; but at last they discovered the men they were seeking. One was sitting on the ground, supported by the arms of the other. Fra Angelo rushed forward and pushed back the hood that first met his hand. He saw Magnani's handsome face, darkened by the shadow of death; his blood was pouring out upon the ground; Michel was drenched with it and felt that his strength was giving way, although he had no other wound than that caused by his intense and intolerable sorrow at his inability to help his friend, and at the feeling that he was dying in his arms. Fra Angelo tried to assist the noble-hearted artisan, but Magnani gently put away the hand with which he would have touched his wound. "Let me die in peace, padre," he said, in a voice so faint that the monk was obliged to put his ear to the dying man's lips to hear what he said. "I am happy that I am able to bid you good-bye. You will tell Michel's mother and sister that I died defending him; but do not let Michel know it! He will take care of my family, and you will console them. We won the victory, did we not," he said to the Piccinino, glancing at him with a lifeless eye and not recognizing him. "O Mila!" exclaimed the Piccinino involuntarily, "you would have been a brave man's wife!" "Where are you, Michel? I cannot see you any more," said Magnani, feeling for his friend with trembling hands. "We are safe here, aren't we? at the gates of Catania, of course? You will soon embrace your mother! Ah! yes, I hear the murmur of the naiad; the sound revives me; the water flows into my wound--cold as ice, but very soothing." "Live to see my mother and sister!" cried Michel. "Ah! you shall live, we will never part!" "Alas! I know what that smile means," said the Piccinino in an undertone, examining Magnani's blue distorted lips; "do not let him talk any more." "But I am perfectly well!" exclaimed Magnani in a loud voice, putting out his arms. "I do not feel ill at all. Let us go, my friends!" He struggled to his feet with a convulsive movement, stood for an instant swaying to and fro, then fell dead on the moist sand on the edge of the stream. Michel was utterly overwhelmed. Fra Angelo did not lose his presence of mind, although from his breast, heaving with violent sobs, there issued hoarse, heartrending groans. He lifted an enormous stone at the entrance to one of the innumerable caves hollowed out of the sandstone long before, to obtain material for building the fortress; he carefully covered Magnani's body with the ample folds of the frock he wore, and, having thus provided a temporary shroud, closed the cave once more with the stone and left the body there.