Francesco stirred, and a sigh fluttered through his pallid lips. Then he
raised his heavy lids, and their glances met and held each other. And
so, eyes that were brown and tender looked down into feverish languid
eyes of black, what time her gentle hand held the moist cloth to his
aching brow.

"Angel of beauty!" he murmured dreamily, being but half-awake as yet to
his position. Then, becoming conscious of her ministrations, "Angel of
goodness!" he added, with yet deeper fervour.

She had no answer for him, saving such answer--and in itself it was
eloquent enough--as her blushes made, for she was fresh from a convent
and all innocent of worldly ways and tricks of gallant speech.

"Do you suffer?" she asked at last.

"Suffer?" quoth he, now waking more and more, and his voice sounding a
note of scorn. "Suffer? My head so pillowed and a saint from Heaven
ministering to my ills? Nay, I am in no pain, Madonna, but in a joy more
sweet than I have ever known."

"Gesù! What a nimble tongue!" gibed the fool from the background.

"Are you there, too, Master Buffoon?" quoth Francesco. "And Fanfulla?
Is he not here? Why, now I bethink me; he went to Acquasparta with the
friar." He thrust his elbow under him for more support.

"You must not move," said she, thinking that he would essay to rise.