In half an hour the injured man was lying in Gianbattista’s bed.  It was now evident that he was alive, for he breathed heavily and regularly.  But the half-closed eyes had no intelligence in them, and the slight flush in the hollow cheeks was not natural to see.  The twisted arm still stuck out of the bed-coverings in a painfully distorted attitude.  The two women and Gianbattista stood by the bedside in silence, waiting for the arrival of the surgeon.

He came at last, a quiet-looking man of middle age, with grizzled hair and a face deeply pitted with the smallpox.  He seemed to know what he was about, for he asked for a detailed account of the accident from Gianbattista while he examined the patient.  The young man, who was beginning to feel the effects of the fall, now that the first excitement had subsided, sat down while he told the story.  The surgeon urged the two women to leave the room.

“The left arm is dislocated at the shoulder, without fracture,” said the surgeon.  “Lend me a hand, will you?  Hold his body firmly—­here and here—­with all your might, while I pull the joint into place.  If his head or spine are not injured the pain may bring him to consciousness.  That will be a good thing.  Now, ready—­one, two, three, pull!”

The two men gave a vigorous jerk, and to Gianbattista’s surprise the arm fell back in a natural position; but the injured priest’s features expressed no pain.  He was evidently quite unconscious.  A further examination led the surgeon to believe that the harm was more serious.  There was a bad bruise on one side of the head, and more than one upon other parts of the body.

“Will he live?” asked Gianbattista faintly, as he sank back into his chair.

“Oh yes—­probably.  He is likely to have a brain fever; One cannot tell.  How old is he?”

He asked one or two other questions, arranging the patient’s position with skilful hands while he talked Then he asked for paper and wrote a prescription.

“Nothing more can be done for the present,” he said.  “You should put some ice on his head, and if he recovers consciousness, so as to speak before I come back, observe what he says.  He may be in a delirium, or he may talk quite rationally.  One cannot tell Send for this medicine and give it to him if he is conscious.  Otherwise, only keep his head cool.  I will come back early in the evening.  You are not hurt yourself?” he inquired, looking at Gianbattista curiously.

“No; I am badly shaken, and my hands are a little cut—­that is all,” answered the young man.

“What a beautiful thing youth is!” observed the surgeon philosophically, as he went away.