“Is he awake?” asked Peters.

The woman, comprehending the glance which accompanied the words, though not the words themselves, nodded yes.

“Here is Mr. Shackford come to see you, Torrini,” Peters said.

The man slowly unclosed his eyes; they were unnaturally brilliant and dilated, and seemed to absorb the rest of his features.

“I didn’t want him.”

“Let by-gones be by-gones, Torrini,” said Richard, approaching the bedside.  “I am sorry about this.”

“You are very good; I don’t understand.  I ask nothing of Slocum; but the signorina comes every day, and I cannot help it.  What would you have?  I’m a dead man,” and he turned away his face.

“It is not so bad as that,” said Richard.

Torrini looked up with a ghastly smile.  “They have cut off the hand that struck you, Mr. Shackford.”

“I suppose it was necessary.  I am very sorry.  In a little while you will be on your feet again.”

“It is too late.  They might have saved me by taking the arm, but I would not allow them.  I may last three or four days.  The doctor says it.”

Peters, standing in the shadow, jerked his head affirmatively.

“I do not care for myself,” the man continued,—­“but she and the little ones—­That is what madden s me.  They will starve.”

“They will not be let starve in Stillwater,” said Richard.

Torrini turned his eyes upon him wistfully and doubtfully.  “You will help them?”

“Yes, I and others.”

“If they could be got to Italy,” said Torrini, after meditating, “it would be well.  Her farther,” giving a side look at the woman, “is a fisherman of Capri.”  At the word Capri the woman lifted her head quickly.  “He is not rich, but he’s not poor; he would take her.”

“You would wish her sent to Naples?”

“Yes.”

“If you do not pull through, she and the children shall go there.”

“Brigida!” called Torrini; then he said something rapidly in Italian to the woman, who buried her face in both hands, and did not reply.

“She has no words to thank you.  See, she is tired to death, with the children all day and me all night,—­these many nights.”

“Tell her to go to bed in the other room,” said Richard.  “There’s another room, isn’t there?  I’ll sit with you.”

“You?”

“Your wife is fagged out,—­that is plain.  Send her to bed, and don’t talk any more.  Peters, I wish you’d run and get a piece of ice somewhere; there’s no drinking-water here.  Come, now, Torrini, I can’t speak Italian.  Oh, I don’t mind your scowling; I intend to stay.”

Torrini slowly unknitted his brows, and an irresolute expression stole across his face; then he called Brigida, and bade her go in with the children.  She bowed her head submissively, and fixing her melting eyes on Richard for an instant passed into the adjoining chamber.