He was alone in his two little rooms, and began to pace them up and down.  Cooler than upon the dead calm sea, the breeze blew fresh through the small unglazed windows, which could only be closed with wooden shutters.  The solitude was soothing to him.  He stooped before the little image of the Virgin, devoutly gazing upon the glory round the head (made of stars cut out in silver paper).  But he did not want to pray.  What reason had he to pray, now that he had lost all he had ever hoped for?

And this day appeared to last for ever.  He did so long for night! for he was weary, and more exhausted by the loss of blood than he would have cared to own.  His hand was very sore.  Seating himself upon a little stool, he untied the handkerchief that bound it; the blood, so long repressed, gushed out again; all round the wound the hand was swollen high.

He washed it carefully, cooling it in the water; then he clearly saw the marks of Laurella’s teeth.

“She was right,” he said; “I was a brute, and deserved no better.  I will send her back the handkerchief by Giuseppe to-morrow.  Never shall she set eyes on me again.”  And he washed the handkerchief with the greatest care, and spread it out in the sun to dry.

And having bound up his hand again, as well as he could manage with his teeth and his left hand, he threw himself upon his bed, and closed his eyes.

He was soon waked up from a sort of slumber by the rays of the bright moonlight, and also by the pain of his hand; he had just risen for more cold water to soothe its throbbings, when he heard the sound of some one at the door.  Laurella stood before him.

She came in without a question, took off the handkerchief she had tied over her head, and placed her little basket upon the table; then she drew a deep breath.

“You are come to fetch your handkerchief,” he said.  “You need not have taken that trouble.  In the morning I would have asked Giuseppe to take it to you.”

“It is not the handkerchief,” she said quickly.  “I have been up among the hills to gather herbs to stop the blood; see here.”  And she lifted the lid of her little basket.

“Too much trouble,” he said, not in bitterness—­“far too much trouble.  I am better, much better; but if I were worse, it would be no more than I deserve.  Why did you come at such a time?  If any one should see you?  You know how they talk, even when they don’t know what they are saying.”

“I care for no one’s talk,” she said, passionately.  “I came to see your hand, and put the herbs upon it; you cannot do it with your left.”

“It is not worth while, I tell you.”

“Let me see it then, if I am to believe you.”

She took his hand, that was not able to prevent her, and unbound the linen.  When she saw the swelling, she shuddered, and gave a cry:  “Jesus Maria!”

“It is a little swollen,” he said; “it will be over in four-and-twenty hours.”