“Yes, but they leave every day, don't they?” asked Layton, impatiently.
“I ain't posted up in their doin's, nor I don't want to, that's a fact. We went ashore with a calm sea and a full moon, coming up from Civita-Vecchia—”
Layton burst into a laugh at the strange pronunciation,—a wild, unearthly sort of laugh that ended in a low, faint sigh, after which he lay back like one exhausted.
“I 'm a-goin' to take a little blood from you, I am!” said Quackinboss, producing a lancet which, from its shape and size, seemed more conversant with horse than human practice.
“I 'll not be bled! How am I to travel a journey of seven, eight, or ten days and nights, if I 'm bled?” cried the sick man, angrily.
“I 've got to bleed you, and I 'll do it!” said Quackinboss, as, taking ont his handkerchief, he tore a long strip, like a ribbon, from its border.
“Francesco—Francesco!” screamed out Layton, wildly, “take this man away; he has no right to be here. I 'll not endure it. Leave me—go—leave me!” screamed he, angrily.
There was that peculiar something about the look of Quackinboss that assured Francesco it would be as well not to meddle with him; and, like all his countrymen, he was quick to read an expression and profit by his knowledge. Even to the sick man, too, did the influence extend, and the determinate, purpose-like tone of his manner enforced obedience without even an effort.