“I would not trust any one but you,” resumed Don Roderick; “do me a favour.”
“Command me.”
“Do you know where the surgeon Chiodo lives?”
“I do.”
“He is an honest man, who, if he be well paid, keeps secret the sick. Go to him; tell him I will give him four or six crowns a visit,—more, if he wishes it. Tell him to come here immediately; act with prudence; let no one get knowledge of it.”
“Well thought of,” said Griso; “I will return immediately.”
“First, Griso, give me a little water; I burn with thirst.”
“No, my lord, nothing without the advice of a physician. This is a rapid disease, and there is no time to lose. Be tranquil. In the twinkling of an eye, I will be here with the signor Chiodo.” So saying, he left the room.
Don Roderick followed him in imagination to the house of Chiodo, counted his steps, measured the time. He often looked at his side, but, horror-struck, could only regard it a moment. Continuing to listen intently for the arrival of the surgeon, this effort of attention suspended the sense of suffering, and left him the free exercise of his thoughts. Suddenly he heard a noise of small bells, which appeared to come from some of the apartments, and not from the street. Listening again, he heard it louder, and at the same time a sound of steps. A horrible suspicion darted across his mind. He sat up, listened still more attentively, and heard a sound in the next chamber, as of a chest carefully placed on the floor; he threw his limbs out of bed, so as to be ready to rise; and kept his eyes fastened on the door; it opened, and, behold, two monatti with their diabolical countenances, and cursed liveries, advancing towards the bed, whilst from the half-open door was seen the figure of Griso, awaiting the success of his sordid treachery.
“Ah, infamous traitor! Begone, rascals! Biondino, Carlotto, help! murder!” cried Don Roderick, extending his hand under his pillow for his pistol.