Yes; they all agreed that the nurse was dark.
One after another they dropped away, till only Monsignor Scalchi was left kneeling at a prie-dieu, and an under-sacristan going about his work, filling a silver lamp for the shrine of Saint X., shaving down the lower ends of great yellow wax torches to set in triple-footed iron stands for a funeral, counting out wafers for the altar. There was silence save for a light lapse of water against the steps outside; there was a sleepy yellow sunshine on the marble floor, and a smell of incense in the soft air.
As Monsignor Scalchi rose from his knees, a second under-sacristan entered.
“Here are the books from San Lazzaro, Monsignore,” he said. “But the translations from the Turkish are not yet ready. The illness of Professor Mora delayed them. He was to have looked them over.”
“Did you learn how the professor is?” asked the prelate, glancing over the books given him.
“I went to ask, Monsignore. Gian says that he is failing fast. The Marchesa Loredan has been to see him.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Monsignor Scalchi, looking up from the volume in his hand.
“Yes; and Gian says that the nurse watches over everything.”
“The nurse seems to be a dark one,” monsignore remarked.
“Yes,” said the sacristan, “the nurse is dark.”