“Do not fear, father, I am here,” answered the Duke, approaching the bed and trying to smile.
Mazzagrogna was standing in front of one of the balconies, looking out attentively. No cries reached them now and no one was to be seen.
The sun, gradually descending in the clear sky, was like a rosy circle of flames, enlarging and glaring over the hill-tops. All the country around seemed to burn and the southwest wind resembled a breath from the fire. The first quarter of the moon arose through the groves of Lisci. Poggio, Revelli, Ricciano, Rocca of Forca, were seen through the window panes, revealed by distant flashes of lightning, and from time to time the sound of bells could be heard. A few incendiary fires began to glow here and there. The heat was suffocating.
“This,” said the Duke of Ofena, in his hoarse, harsh voice, “comes from Scioli, but——”
He made a menacing gesture, then he approached Mazzagrogna.
He felt uneasy, because Carletto Grua could not yet be seen. He paced up and down the hall with a heavy step. He then detached from a hook two long, old-fashioned pistols, examining them carefully. The father followed his every movement with dilated eyes, breathing heavily, like a calf in agony, and now and then he shook the bed cover with his deformed hands. He asked two or three times of Mazzagrogna, “What can you see?”
Suddenly Mazzagrogna exclaimed, “Here comes Carletto, running with Gennaro.”
You could hear, in fact, the furious blows upon the large gate. Soon after, Carletto and the servant entered the room, pale, frightened, stained with blood and covered with dust.
The Duke, on perceiving Carletto, uttered a cry. He took him in his arms and began to feel him all over his body, to find the wounds.
“What have they done to you? What have they done to you? Tell me!”