while he
continued to fasten his clothes with the other.

Stefanone was not without some experience of similar cases, so he
picked up his lantern and went off. In less than a quarter of an hour,
he and Dalrymple were on their way to Sor Tommaso's house, which was in
the piazza of Subiaco, not far from the principal church. Half a dozen
peasants, who had met the muleteers bringing the wounded doctor home
from the spot where he had been found, followed the two men, talking
excitedly in low voices and broken sentences. The dawn was grey above
the houses, and the autumn mists had floated up to the parapet on the
side where the little piazza looked down to the valley, and hung
motionless in the still air, like a stage sea in a theatre. In the
distance was heard the clattering of mules' shoes, and occasionally the
deep clanking of the goats' bells. Just as the little party reached the
small, dark green door of the doctor's house the distant convent bells
tolled one, then two quick strokes, then three again, and then five, and
then rang out the peal for the morning Angelus. The door of the dirty
little coffee shop in the piazza was already open, and a faint light
burned within. The air was damp, quiet and strangely resonant, as it
often is in mountain towns at early dawn. The gusty October wind had
gone down, after blowing almost all night.

The case was far from being as serious as Dalrymple had expected, and he
soon convinced himself that Sor Tommaso was not in any great danger. He
had fainted from fright and some loss of blood, but neither of the two
thrusts which had wounded him had penetrated to his lungs, and the third
was little more than a scratch. Doubtless he owed his safety in part to
the fact that the wind had blown his cloak in folds over his shoulders
and head. But it was also clear that his assailant had possessed no
experience in the use of the knife as a weapon. When the group of men at
the door were told that Sor Tommaso was not mortally wounded, they went
away somewhat disappointed at the insignificant ending of the affair,
though the doctor was not an unpopular man in the town.

"It is some woman," said one of them, contemptuously. "What can a woman
do with a knife? Worse than a cat--she scratches, and runs away."

"Some little jealousy," observed another. "Eh! Sor Tommaso--who knows
where he makes love? But meanwhile he is growing old, to be so gay."

"The old are the worst," replied the first speaker.