Some hours afterwards, as I conjectured, I seemed in part to awake, but no sooner had I stretched my weary limbs upon my rude couch than I slept till the dawn of day. The same disposition to somnolency continued through the day, and the next night, I rested as soundly as before. What was the sort of crisis that had thus taken place? I know not; but I was perfectly restored.
CHAPTER XLVII.
The sickness of the stomach which I had so long laboured under now ceased, the pains of the head also left me, and I felt an extraordinary appetite. My digestion was good, and I gained strength. Wonderful providence! that deprived me of my health to humble my mind, and again restored it when the moment was at hand that I should require it all, that I might not sink under the weight of my sentence.
On the 24th of November, one of our companions, Dr. Foresti, was taken from the Piombi, and transported no one knew whither. The jailer, his wife, and the assistants, were alike alarmed, and not one of them ventured to throw the least light upon this mysterious affair.
“And why should you persist,” said Tremerello, “in wishing to know, when nothing good is to be heard? I have told you too much—too much already.”
“Then what is the use of trying to hide it? I know it too well. He is condemned to death.”
“Who? . . . he . . . Doctor Foresti?”
Tremerello hesitated, but the love of gossip was not the least of his virtues.
“Don’t say, then,” he resumed, “that I am a babbler; I never wished to say a word about these matters; so, remember, it is you who compel me.”
“Yes, yes, I do compel you; but courage! tell me every thing you know respecting the poor Doctor?”