"Alas! I know what that smile means," said the Piccinino in an undertone, examining Magnani's blue distorted lips; "do not let him talk any more."
"But I am perfectly well!" exclaimed Magnani in a loud voice, putting out his arms. "I do not feel ill at all. Let us go, my friends!"
He struggled to his feet with a convulsive movement, stood for an instant swaying to and fro, then fell dead on the moist sand on the edge of the stream.
Michel was utterly overwhelmed. Fra Angelo did not lose his presence of mind, although from his breast, heaving with violent sobs, there issued hoarse, heartrending groans. He lifted an enormous stone at the entrance to one of the innumerable caves hollowed out of the sandstone long before, to obtain material for building the fortress; he carefully covered Magnani's body with the ample folds of the frock he wore, and, having thus provided a temporary shroud, closed the cave once more with the stone and left the body there.
Then he took Michel's arm, and walked with him and the Piccinino to a more extensive excavation a hundred yards away, which was occupied as a dwelling by a wretchedly destitute family. In the man who joined them there a few moments later, Michel might have recognized one of the peasants who were on friendly terms with the brigands, but Michel knew nothing of what was going on, and recognized nobody.
The peasant assisted the monk to dress the Piccinino's wound, which was deep and beginning to cause him much pain, so much that it required all his strength of will to conceal it.
Fra Angelo was a better surgeon than most of his countrymen who held diplomas. He performed a painful but rapid operation on the Piccinino, and extracted the bullet. The patient did not utter a groan, and Michel did not recover consciousness of his surroundings until he saw him turn pale and grind his teeth.
"Are you going to die too, brother?" he said, taking his clenched hand.
"Would to God that I had died instead of your friend!" Carmelo replied, in an outburst of fierce anger with himself. "I should no longer suffer, and I should be mourned; whereas now I shall suffer all my life and nobody will mourn for me!"
"Is this your gratitude for your brother's self-sacrificing devotion, my friend?" said the monk, throwing the bullet on the ground.