Part 7 (1/2)

”Get up, Signore! Get up! You are wanted quickly!” It was Stefanone.

Dalrymple struck a light, for he had a supply of matches with him, a convenience of modern life not at that time known in Subiaco, except as an expensive toy, though already in use in Rome. As he was, he opened the door. Stefanone came in, dressed in his s.h.i.+rt and breeches, pale with excitement.

”You must dress yourself, Signore,” he said briefly, as he glanced at the Scotchman, and then set down the small tin and gla.s.s lantern he carried.

”What is the matter?” inquired Dalrymple, yawning, and stretching his great white arms over his head, till his knuckles struck the low ceiling; for he was a tall man.

”The matter is that they have killed Sor Tommaso,” answered the peasant.

Dalrymple uttered an exclamation of surprise and incredulity.

”It is as I say,” continued Stefanone. ”They found him lying across the way, in the street, with knife-wounds in him, as many as you please.”

”That is horrible!” exclaimed Dalrymple, turning, and calmly tr.i.m.m.i.n.g his lamp, which burned badly at first.

”Then dress yourself, Signore!” said Stefanone, impatiently. ”You must come!”

”Why? If he is dead, what can I do?” asked the northern man, coolly. ”I am sorry. What more can I say?”

”But he is not dead yet!” Stefanone was growing excited. ”They have taken him--”

”Oh! he is alive, is he?” interrupted the Scotchman, das.h.i.+ng at his clothes, as though he were suddenly galvanized into life himself. ”Then why did you tell me they had killed him?” he asked, with a curious, dry calmness of voice, as he instantly began to dress himself. ”Get some clean linen, Signor Stefano. Tear it up into strips as broad as your hand, for bandages, and set the women to make a little lint of old linen--cotton is not good. Where have they taken Sor Tommaso?”

”To his own house,” answered the peasant.

”So much the better. Go and make the bandages.”

Dalrymple pushed Stefanone towards the door with one hand, while he continued to fasten his clothes with the other.

Stefanone was not without some experience of similar cases, so he picked up his lantern and went off. In less than a quarter of an hour, he and Dalrymple were on their way to Sor Tommaso's house, which was in the piazza of Subiaco, not far from the princ.i.p.al church. Half a dozen peasants, who had met the muleteers bringing the wounded doctor home from the spot where he had been found, followed the two men, talking excitedly in low voices and broken sentences. The dawn was grey above the houses, and the autumn mists had floated up to the parapet on the side where the little piazza looked down to the valley, and hung motionless in the still air, like a stage sea in a theatre. In the distance was heard the clattering of mules' shoes, and occasionally the deep clanking of the goats' bells. Just as the little party reached the small, dark green door of the doctor's house the distant convent bells tolled one, then two quick strokes, then three again, and then five, and then rang out the peal for the morning Angelus. The door of the dirty little coffee shop in the piazza was already open, and a faint light burned within. The air was damp, quiet and strangely resonant, as it often is in mountain towns at early dawn. The gusty October wind had gone down, after blowing almost all night.

The case was far from being as serious as Dalrymple had expected, and he soon convinced himself that Sor Tommaso was not in any great danger. He had fainted from fright and some loss of blood, but neither of the two thrusts which had wounded him had penetrated to his lungs, and the third was little more than a scratch. Doubtless he owed his safety in part to the fact that the wind had blown his cloak in folds over his shoulders and head. But it was also clear that his a.s.sailant had possessed no experience in the use of the knife as a weapon. When the group of men at the door were told that Sor Tommaso was not mortally wounded, they went away somewhat disappointed at the insignificant ending of the affair, though the doctor was not an unpopular man in the town.

”It is some woman,” said one of them, contemptuously. ”What can a woman do with a knife? Worse than a cat--she scratches, and runs away.”

”Some little jealousy,” observed another. ”Eh! Sor Tommaso--who knows where he makes love? But meanwhile he is growing old, to be so gay.”

”The old are the worst,” replied the first speaker. ”Since it is nothing, let us have a baiocco's worth of acquavita, and let us go away.”

So they turned into the dirty little coffee shop to get their pennyworth of spirits. Meanwhile Dalrymple was was.h.i.+ng and binding up his friend's wounds. Sor Tommaso groaned and winced under every touch, and the Scotchman, with dry gentleness, did his best to rea.s.sure him. Stefanone looked on in silence for some time, helping Dalrymple when he was needed. The doctor's servant-woman, a somewhat grimy peasant, was sitting on the stairs, sobbing loudly.

”It is useless,” moaned Sor Tommaso. ”I am dead.”

”I may be mistaken,” answered Dalrymple, ”but I think not.”

And he continued his operations with a sure hand, greatly to the admiration of Stefanone, who had often seen knife-wounds dressed.

Gradually Sor Tommaso became more calm. His face, from having been normally of a bright red, was now very pale, and his watery blue eyes blinked at the light helplessly like a kitten's, as he lay still on his pillow. Stefanone went away to his occupations at last, and Dalrymple, having cleared away the litter of unused bandages and lint, and set things in order, sat down by the bedside to keep his patient company for a while. He was really somewhat anxious lest the wounds should have taken cold.