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. "These
people are good-natured. I will but hasten to the boy for whom you
sought assistance--in less than an hour I will be with you again."

I laid a detaining hand on his arm.

"Stay," I murmured, feebly, "let me know the worst. Is this the plague?"

"I hope not!" he replied, compassionately. "But what if it be? You are
young and strong enough to fight against it without fear."

"I have no fear," I said. "But, father, promise me one thing--send no
word of my illness to my wife--swear it! Even if I am
unconscious--dead--swear that I shall not be taken to the villa. Swear
it! I cannot rest till I have your word."

"I swear it most willingly, my son," he answered, solemnly. "By all I
hold sacred, I will respect your wishes."

I was infinitely relieved--the safety of those I loved was assured--and
I thanked him by a mute gesture. I was too weak to say more. He
disappeared, and my brain wandered into a chaos of strange fancies. Let
me try to revolve these delusions. I plainly see the interior of the
common room where I lie. There is the timid innkeeper--he polishes his
glasses and bottles, casting ever and anon a scared glance in my
direction. Groups of men look in at the door, and, seeing me, hurry
away. I observe all this--I know where I am--yet I am also climbing the
steep passes of an Alpine gorge--the cold snow is at my feet--I hear
the rush and roar of a thousand torrents. A crimson cloud floats above
the summit of a white glacier--it parts asunder gradually, and in its
bright center a face smiles forth! "Nina! my love, my wife, my soul!" I
cry aloud. I stretch out my arms--I clasp her!--bah! it is this good
rogue of an innkeeper who holds me in his musty embrace! I struggle
with him fiercely--pantingly.

"Fool!" I shriek in his ear. "Let me go to her--her lips pout for
kisses--let me go!"

Another man advances and seizes me; he and the innkeeper