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.