This last exclamation was wrung out of me by sheer anguish.  My limbs refused to support me, and a pang, cold and bitter as though naked steel had been thrust through my body, caused me to sink down upon the pavement in a kind of convulsion.  The tall and sinewy monk, without a moment’s hesitation, dragged me up and half carried, half led me into a kind of auberge, or restaurant for the poorer classes.  Here he placed me in a recumbent position on one of the wooden benches, and called up the proprietor of the place, a man to whom he seemed to be well known.  Though suffering acutely I was conscious, and could hear and see everything that passed.

“Attend to him well, Pietro—­it is the rich Count Fabio Romani.  Thou wilt not lose by thy pains.  I will return within an hour.”

“The Count Romani!  Santissima Madonna!  He has caught the plague!”

“Thou fool!” exclaimed the monk, fiercely.  “How canst thou tell?  A stroke of the sun is not the plague, thou coward!  See to him, or by St. Peter and the keys there shall be no place for thee in heaven!”

The trembling innkeeper looked terrified at this menace, and submissively approached me with pillows, which he placed under my head.  The monk, meanwhile, held a glass to my lips containing some medicinal mixture, which I swallowed mechanically.

“Rest here, my son,” he said, addressing me in soothing tones.  “These people are good-natured.  I will but hasten to the boy for whom you sought assistance—­in less than an hour I will be with you again.”

I laid a detaining hand on his arm.

“Stay,” I murmured, feebly, “let me know the worst.  Is this the plague?”

“I hope not!” he replied, compassionately.  “But what if it be?  You are young and strong enough to fight against it without fear.”

“I have no fear,” I said.  “But, father, promise me one thing—­send no word of my illness to my wife—­swear it!  Even if I am unconscious—­dead—­swear that I shall not be taken to the villa.  Swear it!  I cannot rest till I have your word.”

“I swear it most willingly, my son,” he answered, solemnly.  “By all I hold sacred, I will respect your wishes.”

I was infinitely relieved—­the safety of those I loved was assured—­ and I thanked him by a mute gesture.  I was too weak to say more.  He disappeared, and my brain wandered into a chaos of strange fancies.  Let me try to revolve these delusions.  I plainly see the interior of the common room where I lie.  There is the timid innkeeper—­he polishes his glasses and bottles, casting ever and anon a scared glance in my direction.  Groups of men look in at the door, and, seeing me, hurry away.  I observe all this—­I know where I am—­yet I am also climbing the steep passes of an Alpine gorge—­the cold snow is at my feet—­I hear the rush and roar of a thousand torrents.  A crimson cloud floats above the summit of a white glacier—­it parts asunder gradually, and in its bright center a face smiles forth!  “Nina! my love, my wife, my soul!” I cry aloud.  I stretch out my arms—­I clasp her!—­bah! it is this good rogue of an innkeeper who holds me in his musty embrace!  I struggle with him fiercely—­ pantingly.