and could hear and see everything that passed.

"Attend to him well, Pietro--it is the rich Count Fabio Romani. Thou
wilt not lose by thy pains. I will return within an hour."

"The Count Romani! Santissima Madonna! He has caught the plague!"

"Thou fool!" exclaimed the monk, fiercely. "How canst thou tell? A
stroke of the sun is not the plague, thou coward! See to him, or by
St. Peter and the keys there shall be no place for thee in heaven!"

The trembling innkeeper looked terrified at this menace, and
submissively approached me with pillows, which he placed under my
head. The monk, meanwhile, held a glass to my lips containing some
medicinal mixture, which I swallowed mechanically.

"Rest here, my son," he said, addressing me in soothing tones.
"These people are good-natured. I will but hasten to the boy for
whom you sought assistance--in less than an hour I will be with you
again."

I laid a detaining hand on his arm.

"Stay," I murmured, feebly, "let me know the worst. Is this the
plague?"

"I hope not!" he replied, compassionately. "But what if it be? You
are young and strong enough to fight against it without fear."

"I have no fear," I said. "But, father, promise me one thing--send