The priest said, “He has been found and taken away—­no doubt of it.”

“He has walked off, most like,” said the surgeon.  I shook my head.  I was sure I had killed him.

“If you are sure of it,” said the surgeon, “there is little I could have done for him, and as it is far more to the purpose to dress a living man than a dead one, permit me to attack that ugly flesh wound in your cheek.  God of mercy!” he cried, as he looked into it, “your man must have shot you with a currycomb.”

When he had done his best for me I went to bed, and immediately fell asleep.

CHAPTER XXVIII

VIRGINIA ON HER METTLE

I slept like a log until the hour of noon—­perfectly dreamless sleep.  It was Virginia who awoke me then by shaking my shoulder, not (as usually) by opening the shutter.  I heard the bells of the hour ringing and guessed the time; I remembered that Scipione was away; I remembered everything.

“I have your chocolate, Don Francis,” she said.  “Drink it and rise as soon as possible.  You must be out of this.”

I replied, “I see no reason for haste.  I will write a letter—­Ser Bartolo shall take it for me—­the answer will be satisfactory.”

Virginia kept herself calm by main force.  “The house is surrounded,” she said.  “You will be taken in your bed if you don’t leave it soon.”  I sat up.

“Virginia, I ask your pardon.”  She shivered and turned away.

“Speak no more of that.”

“But I must.  You were right, and I—­” She threw up her head with a little cry, fell upon her knees.  She took my hand and covered it with kisses.

“No more.  I cannot bear it.  Who am I?  What am I?  Say what you please to me, but never plead with me.”  I could see her shoulders shaking.

“I must say what I have to say—­” I would have continued.  She gave another sharp cry—­shivered again miserably.  In the half light of the room I could see her lift her pale face towards the ceiling.  It seemed to me that she prayed.  After a while she looked down again and said quietly, “Speak now—­and have done with it.”

I told her what had occurred in the small hours; I did not spare myself.  When I said that I had shot Fra Palamone she shook her head.

“You might as well hope to shoot the devil.  All you have done is to give yourself into the hands of them who hire him.  You are to be sent to Volterra or the galleys for this.  The men outside are sbirri.”

I told her that I should write to Count Giraldi.  She laughed.  “Your Count Giraldi will be out of Florence.  Do you think him a child?  His one desire is to get rid of you.  No, no.  You must disguise yourself.  This is a trap.”

“I refused to take your word last night, my dear,” I said, “and should be sorry to do it again.  If the sbirri want me they can take me on a warrant.”