'No, nothing; I feel better,' the invalid whispered, with a sigh of relief from her unburdened breast.
Her father had taken hold of her hand, gazing affectionately at his daughter. And she, who for ten days had driven him away from her bed by her look and the waving of her hand, smiled on him this time. It was a flash of light. He could do nothing but stammer out:
'My child! my child!'
And Margherita went out of the room cheerfully, as if her young mistress were safe—safe for ever from the frightful danger she had gone through for ten days. The Marquis di Formosa had sat down at the head of the sick girl's bed, and, holding her slight hand in his, he felt his darling's fleshless fingers pressing now and then a little harder on his own, as a loving caress. Twice or thrice he leant over and asked, 'Would you like anything?' She had not replied, but that rapid flash of a smile had come back. It was night already, and faces could not be made out any longer, when, on a new question from her father, Bianca Maria replied: 'Yes, I do.'
'What do you want? Tell me at once!'
'I want the doctor at once,' she said.
'Do you feel ill?' the old man asked, misunderstanding her.
'No; I want Dr. Amati.'
Her father put his hand over the girl's on the coverlet, but he said nothing.
'Do you hear? I wish for Dr. Amati,' she repeated in a louder voice, that already had a quiver of annoyance in it.