"I beg your pardon, countess," he said in the tone of a man of the world, "I must hurt you, it is necessary."
The young countess smiled.
The count took firm hold of the suffering arm, and quick as lightning cut two deep gashes crossing each other into the wound.
Thick blood mixed with matter flowed from it.
"A handkerchief!" cried the count.
They gave him a cambric handkerchief; he quickly removed the blood, seized a glass bottle, opened the wound widely and poured into it a portion of the contents.
Clara's face grew deadly pale; she closed her eyes, her lips quivered convulsively.
"Does it hurt?" asked the count.
"Horribly!" replied the young girl in a voice that was scarcely audible.
The count took from the casket a small syringe with a sharp steel point, filled it with fluid from the bottle, and injected the contents into the flesh of the arm, following the direction of the swelling.