So gradually Max was brought to stand still. From under the edge of his waistcoat, on the shoulder, the blood was already staining the shirt.
“Are you cut, brother, brother?” said Louis. “Let us see.”
Max now moved his arm with pain. They took off his waistcoat and pushed back his shirt. A nasty blackening wound, with the skin broken.
“If the bone isn’t broken!” said Louis anxiously. “If the bone isn’t broken! Lift thy arm, frère—lift. It hurts you—so—. No—no—it is not broken—no—the bone is not broken.”
“There is no bone broken, I know,” said Max.
“The animal. He hasn’t done that, at least.”
“Where do you imagine he’s gone?” asked Mr. May.
The foreigners shrugged their shoulders, and paid no heed. There was no more rehearsal.
“We had best go home and speak to Madame,” said Mr. May, who was very frightened for his evening performance.
They locked up the Endeavour. Alvina was thinking of Ciccio. He was gone in his shirt sleeves. She had taken his jacket and hat from the dressing-room at the back, and carried them under her rain-coat, which she had on her arm.