Lorenzo kept silence, though he thought that the friar had perhaps divined aright.
At all events, his remedy, whatever it was, proved effectual. After about a minute, Eloise opened her eyes, and looked around her faintly. "Where am I?" she said. "Oh, is that you, Leonora?"
"How are you, madame," said Ramiro d'Orco; "you have swooned from the crowded rooms and overheated air. I trust you will be quite well shortly."
"I am better," she said, "much better, but very weak; I would fain go home. Let some one bring my litter."
"I will go with you," said Lorenzo. "I beseech you, signor, have my horses ordered. But, ere we go, I must thank this good friar for his most serviceable aid. That for your convent, father," he said, drawing him aside and giving him money. "I thank you for your skilful tendance on my wife; but I think that perhaps your counsels might, as you hinted even now, be as good for her mental condition as your drugs have been for her bodily health. I will pray you, therefore, good father, visit her tomorrow towards noon. You can explain your coming as a visit to a patient rather than a penitent; but if you can inspire her with somewhat more careful thought regarding her demeanour in the world, you will do well."
"But the lady knows not yet that I tended on her," said Mardocchi; "let me speak with her again before she goes."
He then approached the side of Eloise, and once more laid his fingers on her pulse.
"Not quite recovered yet," he said, with a grave air; "give me some water. A few more drops will, I trust, complete the cure, daughter;" and he took the phial from his gown.
"Not here, friar--not here!" whispered Ramiro d'Orco.
But Mardocchi put him back with his hand, dropped out some more of the liquid, and gave it to Eloise, saying: