It was now evident that he was alive, for he breathed heavily and regularly.
But the half-closed eyes had no intelligence in them, and the slight flush in the hollow cheeks was not natural to see.

The twisted arm still stuck out of the bed-coverings in a painfully distorted attitude.

The two women and Gianbattista stood by the bedside in silence, waiting for the arrival of the surgeon.
He came at last, a quiet-looking man of middle age, with grizzled hair and a face deeply pitted with the smallpox.

He seemed to know what he was about, for he asked for a detailed account of the accident from Gianbattista while he examined the patient.

The young man, who was beginning to feel the effects of the fall, now that the first excitement had subsided, sat down while he told the story.