"Foscarina!" He called her with all his soul, white with terror, as if to stop with his cry her escaping reason.
She gave a great start, opened her hands, and gazed around as if just roused from a long sleep, of which she remembered nothing.
"Come, sit down."
He led her back to the cushions, and gently made her settle herself among them. She allowed herself to be soothed by his solicitous tenderness. Presently she moaned:
"Who has beaten me?"
She felt of her bruised arms, and touched her face lightly, trembling as if she were cold.
"Come; lie down! Put your head here."
He made her lie on the couch; disposed her head comfortably, put a light cushion over her feet, softly and carefully, leaning over her as over a dear invalid, giving up to her all his heart still throbbing with fear.
"Yes, yes," she repeated, in a voice no louder than a sigh, at each movement he made, as if she would prolong the sweetness of these cares.
"Are you cold?"