“Have you other inmates besides yourself and daughter?” asked the officer.
“Assuredly, yes—a sick man up-stairs, who has been earnestly begging that any gentleman who has a knowledge of the healing art, passing this way, would come and see him,” answered Marco, with all the calmness he could command. “His fever, he says, may be infectious; and, at all events, I wish to have as little to do with him as possible. Perhaps, if you have a surgeon with your troop, you could send him up; or, if you have any skill, signore, you would see him.”
“I! My skill is to kill, not to cure,” said the officer, laughing at his own wit, and completely deceived.
It was with no small satisfaction that Marco saw him again moving on at the head of his men.
The stranger soon after appeared.
“I owe you a good turn, Marco Maffei,” he said, with more cordiality than he generally exhibited. “The day may come when I can repay it. I shall not much longer trouble you with my society.”
Marco did not say what he thought—that the sooner he was gone the better.
Day after day, however, passed by, the guest employing his time in making love, as before, to Chiarina, to her evident annoyance, though at this he seemed in no way disconcerted.
At length, one evening after dark, a loud knock was heard at the door, and, when Marco opened it, an unshorn countenance was thrust in.
“Come, signore, we have been watched, and shall have no little difficulty in rejoining our comrades if there is any delay,” said a gruff voice from out of the hair-covered mouth. “You have been here too long as it is.”