When it was broad daylight, Gianluca seemed better, for the deep sleep had refreshed him. It was still very early, when the professor appeared and paid him a long visit, asking a few questions at first and then suddenly, beginning to talk of politics and the public news. Taquisara left the room with him, and they stood together in Gianluca's sitting-room.
"He is better, is he not?" asked the Sicilian, eagerly.
To his surprise the doctor shook his head and was silent a long time.
"I know nothing," he said, at last. "Nobody knows anything. Surgery is a fine art, but medicine is witchcraft, or little better. You see, I speak frankly. I can only give you my experience, and that may be worth something. I have seen two cases of this kind in which, when the change came, the patients partially recovered, and lived for several years, paralyzed downwards from the point in the spine where the disease begins. I have seen several cases where death has resulted rather suddenly."
"And do you see a change coming?"
"Yes. It has begun already. Is he a devout man?"
"A religious man, at all events," answered Taquisara, gravely.
"Then, if he wishes to see a priest, it would be as well to send for one this morning. But if he wishes to be moved as usual, and dressed, let him have his way. Do not frighten him, if you can help it. No moral shock can do any good. I leave it to you. It is of no use to tell his father and mother. They are here, and you will see if he is worse. I suppose you know that he suffers great pain when he is moved?"
"No!" said Taquisara, anxiously. "I did not know it. I sometimes hear him draw his breath sharply once or twice—but he never complains. I thought it hurt him a little."
"It is agony," said the doctor. "He must be a very brave man."