Vincenzo had cared for his master, had slit up that red, wet sleeve with his sharp knife, and had bandaged the torn flesh as well as he was able; and now, very gently, but without any skill, he was fumbling at the girl’s breast.
Jean made an effort to speak but his lips made no intelligible sounds at first. The servant came running to him joyfully nevertheless. “Signorino! You are better?”
The kind brown eyes smiled through the dimness of their pain.
“Good Vincenzo ... well done. She ... she’s not dead?”
“Oh, no, signorino—at least—I am not sure,” the man faltered.
“The wound is near the heart, is it not? Lay her down here beside me and I will keep it closed with my hand,” Jean said faintly. “Lift her and lay her down here in the hollow of my unhurt arm.”
“No ... no!” she had cried. “Together.” No other man should touch her—if she died it must be in his arms. How still she was, how little warmth of life was there to cherish, how small a fluttering of the dear heart under his hand’s pressure....
“Go now and get help.”
Vincenzo made no answer, but his eyes were like those of a faithful dog, anguished, appealing, and he knelt to kiss the poor fingers that had been bruised under that cruel heel before he went out of the room.
Very softly he closed and locked the door, and then stood for a while in the close darkness of the passage, listening. That devil—he wanted them to die—suppose he should be lurking somewhere about the house, waiting for the servant to go that he might finish his work.