I did not stay to receive the thanks I saw would shortly be showered on me, and thrusting a handful of crowns into the hands of the leader of the good fellows who bore the litter, as some reward for himself and his men, I looped Castor's reins into my arm, and set forward to walk to the villa. The chevalier came with me, and by the time I reached it I was quite giddy, being weak with the pain and the loss of blood. The saturnine old abbé was there, with more concern in his face than I had seen for a long time, and seeing me stagger, he put an arm round me and, aided by St. Armande, assisted me to a couch. The chevalier himself dressed my wound, with a gentle and skilful hand, making as much of me as if I had been run through the vitals. As he finished dressing the wound, the abbé remarked that I would have to rest for a few days to enable it to heal, and I had replied with some difficulty, my jaw being bandaged up, that this was impossible, when Gian came in with a note. It was from Angiola, chiding me gently for not waiting to receive her thanks and those of the abbess, and begging me to come the following day, with a postscript to the effect that the lady abbess would so far relax the rules of the order, as to admit me within the courtyard. I dismissed Gian with thanks, and a message that I would be at the convent, charging him to say nothing of my wound, and then my thoughts went a wool-gathering, and I lay back with the missive in my hands. St. Armande was leaning against the window, his back to the light. He had taken up this position after whispering a word or two to the abbé, who left the room. I did not, however, observe him or anything else, my mind was full of mad thoughts, and for the moment I let them have full play, making no effort to resist. Folding the letter up carefully, I placed it under my pillow, and was about to close my eyes, when the abbé returned, bearing a bowl in his hands. This St. Armande took from him, and approaching me said--
"Come, cavaliere--you must drink this at once."
His tone was sharp and incisive, and looking up in some surprise, I saw he was pale to the lips, and wondered what bee had stung him. I rose to a sitting posture to take the cup; but he would not have it so, and passing his arm round my neck, made me drink like a child. The draught was cool and refreshing, and as I sank back on my pillows, my heart for a moment being gay at the thought of the letter, I said jestingly--
"Chevalier, you would make a most excellent nurse. Shave off that little moustache of yours, put on a black hood and gown, and diavolo! But you would break as many hearts as you cured wounds." The words were barely out of my mouth, when he brought his foot down with an angry stamp on the carpet, and with a face as scarlet now as it had been pale before, turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
I looked to the abbé, who was sitting watching me, stroking his chin with his hand.
"St. John! But is he often taken this way?"
The cleric rose, and not answering my question, spoke.
"You had better try and sleep now, cavaliere, or else the potion may lose its effect." He then followed St. Armande.
I would have risen to apologise, but I felt a pleasant numbness stealing over me, and in a minute or so my thoughts began to grow confused, and I seemed to sink into a sleep. Not so profound a slumber, however, as to be unconscious of what was going on around me. I was sure I once heard Bande Nere and Jacopo in my room, and that I was being carried apparently to a more comfortable bed. Then I felt soft hands bathing my wound, and heard a gentle voice whispering words of deep love in my ear. It was a dream, of course, but all through the night that soon came, Doris d'Entrangues hung over me, and tended me with words I cannot repeat.