After a pause, during which the sick man had lain with closed eyes, he asked--
"You are a Lutheran, sir?"----"Yes."
"I knew it," said Bianchi to himself; "he wishes to rob the church of a soul--he does it all for that! They are no better than we are."
"The fever makes you rave." said Theodore emphatically; "say what you will."
They were both silent for a long time. Theodore placed fresh ice upon the wounds, as before; and Bianchi lay with his face turned towards the wall, motionless, as though he slept. Suddenly, as Theodore was again busied about him, he turned round, and raised himself half up. With the wounded arm he clutched towards Theodore's hand, and grasped it with his burning one, and said, low and slowly--"You are good! you are good! you are a man!" His weakness overcame him; he fell back upon the straw, and burst into a convulsive fit of weeping. As the tears ceased to flow, he slept anew.
CHAPTER II.
When he awoke, the bright morning light was forcing its way through the crevices in the shutters, and making a sunny twilight around him. He saw the boy by his bedside, and the doctor, and heard that Theodore had gone into the town early in the morning, as soon as the boy came in, without saying anything about his return.
Thus he passed half the day, restless, dreaming, listening towards the door. Two mice, which he had tamed, and for whom he had hitherto ever had a caress, even in his moments of deepest gloom and misery, now came into the middle of the room, blinked their bright little eyes at him, squeaked, and flourished about, without his casting a glance towards them. The boy, not knowing that they were permitted guests, frightened them away. Some one knocked. It was somebody who brought the artist an order for a pair of ear-rings, in red shell. Bianchi let him depart without speaking to him; nor did he say a word to a sculptor of his acquaintance, who had heard of the terrible adventure of the previous night, and was good-hearted enough to visit the solitary being.
Meanwhile, Theodore, already early in the day, had mounted the stone steps of the large house in which Mary's parents resided. The old servant opened the door. "They waited long for you last night," he said. "I was sent to your lodgings, but you had not returned. Miss Mary thought that you must have met with some accident, as you were on horseback. But, God be praised! you are safe."
Theodore did not answer; he heard music within--a sonata of Beethoven--suddenly it ceased; a stool was pushed back, a gown rustled. As he entered, Mary stood before him; she seemed to have paused suddenly in the middle of the room on her way to the door; she tried to speak; her cheeks flushed. He seized her hand eagerly with both of his, and now saw that she had been weeping. "Mary!" he said, "I find that I have more to crave pardon for than I expected--you have been uneasy about me!"