If only she could get him to Rome.  It was not more than seven or eight miles to the city, and Regina had often been there with Nanna.  She had been to Saint John Lateran’s at midsummer for the great festival, and she knew where the hospital was, in which famous professors cured every ill under the sun.  If she could bring Marcello to them, he would get well; if he stayed much longer at the inn, Paoluccio would kill him; being a woman, and a loving one, Regina only regarded as possible what she wished, where the man she loved was concerned.

She made up her mind that if it could not be done by any other means she would carry Marcello all the way.  During his illness she had often lifted him from his bed like a little child, for he was slightly built by nature and was worn to a shadow by the fever.  Even Aurora could have raised him, and he was a featherweight in the arms of such a creature as Regina.  But it would be another matter to carry such an awkward burden for miles along the highroad; and besides, she would meet the carabineers, and as she would have to go at night, they would probably arrest her and put her in prison, and Marcello would die.  She must find some other way.

She laid his head tenderly on the pillow and left him, promising to come back as soon as she could.  For safety she had brought the dish of beans with her, lest Nanna should follow her, and she took it with her, just as it was; but at the foot of the outer stairs she ran along the back of the house to the pig-sty, and emptied the mess into the trough, carefully scraping the bowl with the spoon so that it looked as if some one had eaten the contents.  Then she went back to the kitchen.

“Has he eaten?” inquired Nanna, and Paoluccio looked up, too.

“You see,” answered Regina, showing the empty bowl.

“Health to him!” answered Paoluccio.  “He has a good appetite.”

“Eat your own,” said Nanna to the girl.

She suspected that Regina might have eaten the beans meant for Marcello, but her doubt vanished as she saw how the hungry young thing devoured her own portion.

“Are there any more left?” Regina asked when she had finished, for she understood perfectly what was going on in the minds of the other two.

She looked into the earthen cooking-pot which now stood on the corner of the hearth.

“Not even the smell of any more,” answered Nanna.  “There is bread.”

Regina’s white teeth crushed the hard brown crust as if she had not eaten for a week.  There could be no doubt but that the sick boy had eaten the beans; and beans, especially white ones, are not good for people who have the fever, as Nanna had justly observed.

“On Sunday he shall have a dish of liver and cabbage,” she said, in a cheerful tone.  “There is much strength in liver, and cabbage is good for the blood.  I shall take it to him myself, for it will be a pleasure to see him eat.”