"My Lord Cardinal is delirious, he raves," said Giovanni Andrea, shrinking away.
"Prior! don't let that man come near me," said Ippolito, faintly.
The Prior, with solicitude, bent his ear to his lips, but only saw them move. The next instant they were contorted with a spasm.
By this time, they had carried him to his bed-room, which, though the best guest-chamber of the monastery, was furnished with ascetic plainness; a crucifix, a bénitier, and a wooden pallet, comprising most of its moveables, the meagreness of which contrasted strangely enough with the crimson satin cushions and mattresses the Cardinal had brought with him, and which belonged to his horse-litter.
"Air! air!" he said, feebly, as his friends pressed round him.
"It will be well, I think, for all of you to leave the chamber," said the Prior, "except Salviati, Brother Marco, and myself. The Cardinal is in a high fever—I will open a vein for him."
"Not on your life," gasped Ippolito.
Meanwhile, all retired from the room except those whom the Prior had named.
"Marsh miasma, no doubt," said Donati, as he returned to the refectory. "There was a pestiferous vapour on the marshes to-day."