Gianbattista remained alone in the sick-room, seated upon his chair by the head of the bed.  With anxious interest and attention he watched the expressionless face as the heavy breath came and went between the parted lips.  In the distance he could hear the sobbing and incoherent talk of the two women, as the doctor explained to them Paolo’s condition, but he was now too much dazed to give any thought to them.  It seemed to him that Don Paolo had sacrificed his life for him, and that he had no other duty than to sit beside the bed and watch his friend.  All the impressions of the afternoon were very much confused, and the shock of the fall had told upon his nerves far more severely than he had at first realised.  His limbs ached and his hands pained him; at the same time he felt dizzy, and the outline of Don Paolo’s face grew indistinct as he watched it.  He was roused by the entry of Lucia, who had hastily laid aside her hat.  Her face was pale, and her dark eyes were swollen with tears; her hair was in disorder and was falling about her neck.  Gianbattista instinctively rose and put his arm about the girl’s waist as they stood together and looked at the sick man.  He felt that it was his duty to comfort her.

“The doctor thinks he may get well,” he said.

“Who knows,” she answered tearfully, and shook her head, “Oh, Tista, he was our best friend!”

“It was in trying to save me—­” said the young fellow.  But he got no further.  The words stuck in his throat.

“If he lives I will be a son to him!” he added presently.  “I will never leave him.  But perhaps—­perhaps he is too good to live, Lucia!”

“He must not die.  I will take care of him,” answered Lucia.  “You must pray for him, Tista, and I will—­we all will!”

“Eh!  I will try, but I don’t understand that kind of thing as well as you,” said Gianbattista dolefully.  “If you think it is of any use—­”

“Of course it is of use, my heart; do not doubt it,” replied the young girl gravely.  Then her features suddenly quivered, she turned away, and, hiding her face on the pillow beside the priest’s unconscious, head, she sobbed as though her heart would break.  Gianbattista knelt down at her side and put his arm round her neck, whispering lovingly in her ear.

The day was fading, and the last glow of the sun in the south-western sky came through the small window at the other end of the narrow room, illuminating the simple furniture, the white bed coverings, the upturned face of the injured man, and the two young figures that knelt at the bedside.  It was Gianbattista’s room, and there was little enough in it.  The bare bricks, with only a narrow bit of green drugget by the bed, the plain deal table before the window, the tiny round mirror set in lead, at which the apprentice shaved himself, the crazy old chest of drawers—­that was all.  The whitewashed walls were relieved by two or three drawings of chalices and other church