And ere the startled Count could address him, he had quitted the apartment.
CHAPTER VII.
Elated by success, Ludovico lent his ear, in a sort of idiotic ecstasy, to every syllable uttered by the Count. Not that he comprehended their meaning:—There, luckily, he was safe. But his dead man was alive again; had resumed his power of speaking, thinking, acting—a sufficient motive of exultation and emotion to the delighted jailer.
“Viva!” cried he; “viva, evviva. He is saved. All’s well! Che maraviglia! Saved!—and thanks to whom?—to what?”
And, waving in the air his earthen vessel, he proceeded to hug and embrace it, saluting it with the tenderest diminutives of the Tuscan vocabulary.
“Thanks to what?” echoed the sick man. “Why, to your friendly care, my good Ludovico. Nevertheless, should my cure be perfected, you will find those doctors yonder claiming all honour for their prescriptions; and the priest for his prayers.”
“Neither they nor I have any title to the victory,” cried Ludovico, with still wilder gesticulation. “As to the Signore Capellano, his handiwork may have done something: ’tis hard to say. But as to the other—ay, ay—as to the other bringer of salvation—”