“I never knew him in this taking before,” thought Jackeymo; and delicately he insinuated the neck of the pipe into the nerveless fingers of the band that lay supine on those quiet knees. The pipe fell to the ground.
Jackeymo crossed himself, and began praying to his sainted namesake with great fervour.
The doctor rose slowly, and as if with effort; he walked once or twice to and fro the terrace; and then he halted abruptly and said,—
“Friend!”
“Blessed Monsignore San Giacomo, I knew thou wouldst hear me!” cried the servant; and he raised his master’s hand to his lips, then abruptly turned away and wiped his eyes.
“Friend,” repeated Riccabocca, and this time with a tremulous emphasis, and in the softest tone of a voice never wholly without the music of the sweet South, “I would talk to thee of my child.”
CHAPTER XIX.
“The letter, then, relates to the signorina. She is well?”
“Yes, she is well now. She is in our native Italy.” Jackeymo raised his eyes involuntarily towards the orange-trees, and the morning breeze swept by and bore to him the odour of their blossoms.