In spite of the great pain he still suffered, Zorzi laughed, a little.

“You said that you would throw, him into the canal if he came at all,” he said.

“Yes, and so I meant to do!” cried Pasquale.  “But that is no reason why the inhuman monster should be shaving the arch-priest when a man might be dying for need of him!  Oh, let him come here!  Oh, I advise him to come!  The miserable, cowardly, bloodletting, soap-sudding, shaving little beast of a barber!”

Pasquale drew a long breath after this, and unclenched his fist, but his lips still moved, as he said things to himself which would have shocked Marietta if she could have had the least idea of what they meant.

“You cannot stay here,” she said, turning to Zorzi again.  “You cannot lie on this bench all day.”

“I shall soon be able to stand,” answered Zorzi confidently.  “I am much better.”

“You will not stand on that foot for many a day,” said Nella, shaking her head.

“Then Pasquale must get me a pair of crutches,” replied Zorzi.  “I cannot lie on my back because I have hurt one foot.  I must tend the furnace, I must go on with my work, I must make the tests, I must—­”

He stopped short and bit his lip, turning white again as a spasm of excruciating pain shot along his right side, from his foot upwards.  Marietta bent over him, full of anxiety.

“You are suffering!” she said tenderly.  “You must not try to move.”

“It is nothing,” he answered through his closed teeth.  “It will pass, I daresay.”

“It will not pass to-day,” said Nella.  “But I will bring you some syrup of poppies.  That will make you sleep.”

Marietta seemed to feel the pain herself.  She smoothed the leathern cushion under his head as well as she could, and softly touched his forehead.  It was hot and dry now.

“He is feverish,” she said to Nella anxiously.

“I will bring him barley water with the syrup of poppies.  What do you expect?  Do you think that such a wound and such a burn are cooling to the blood, and refreshing to the brain?  The man is badly hurt.  Of course he is feverish.  He ought to be in his bed, like a decent Christian.”

“Some one must help me with the work,” said Zorzi faintly.

“There is no one but me,” answered Marietta after a moment’s pause.

“You?” cried Nella, greatly scandalised.

Even Pasquale stared at Marietta in silent astonishment.

“Yes,” she said quietly.  “There is no one else who knows enough about my father’s work.”

“That is true,” said Zorzi.  “But you cannot come here and work with me.”

Marietta turned away and walked to the window.  In her thin dress she stood there a few minutes, like a slender lily, all white and gold in the summer light.

“It is out of the question!” protested Nella.  “Her brother will never allow her to come.  He will lock her up in her own room for safety, till the master comes home.”