The Gadfly glanced at his left hand. “Old m-m-marks from the teeth of some of the rats.”
“Excuse me; I was speaking of the other hand. That is a fresh hurt.”
The slender, flexible right hand was badly cut and grazed. The Gadfly held it up. The wrist was swollen, and across it ran a deep and long black bruise.
“It is a m-m-mere trifle, as you see,” he said. “When I was arrested the other day,—thanks to Your Eminence,”—he made another little bow,—“one of the soldiers stamped on it.”
Montanelli took the wrist and examined it closely. “How does it come to be in such a state now, after three weeks?” he asked. “It is all inflamed.”
“Possibly the p-p-pressure of the iron has not done it much good.”
The Cardinal looked up with a frown.
“Have they been putting irons on a fresh wound?”
“N-n-naturally, Your Eminence; that is what fresh wounds are for. Old wounds are not much use. They will only ache; you c-c-can't make them burn properly.”
Montanelli looked at him again in the same close, scrutinizing way; then rose and opened a drawer full of surgical appliances.