“What has happened?  Tell me quickly!”

“A man has had his foot badly burned—­it must be dressed at once.”

“Who is it?”

“Zorzi.”

Pasquale saw that Marietta started a little and drew back.  Then she leaned forward again.

“Wait there a minute,” she said, and disappeared quickly.

The porter heard her calling Nella from an inner room, and then he heard Nella’s voice indistinctly.  He waited before the open door.

Nella was a born chatterer, but she had her good qualities, and in an emergency she was silent and skilful.

“Leave it to me,” she said.  “He will need no surgeon.”

In her room she had a small store of simple remedies, sweet oil, a pot of balsam, old linen carefully rolled up in little bundles, a precious ointment made from the fat of vipers, which was a marvellous cure for rheumatism in the joints, some syrup of poppies in a stumpy phial, a box of powdered iris root, and another of saffron.  She took the sweet oil, the balsam, and some linen.  She also took a small pair of scissors which were among her most precious possessions.  She threw her large black kerchief over her head and pinned it together under her chin.

When she came back to Marietta’s room, her mistress was wrapped in a dark mantle that covered hear thin white dress entirely, and one corner of it was drawn up over her head so as to hide her hair and almost all her face.  She was waiting by the door.

“I am going with you,” she said, and her voice was not very steady.

“But you will be seen—­” began Nella.

“By the porter.”

“Your brother may see you—­”

“He is welcome.  Come, we are losing time.”  She opened the door and went out quickly.

“I shall certainly be sent away for letting you come!” protested Nella, hurrying after her.

Marietta did not even answer this, which Nella thought very unkind of her.  From the main staircase Marietta turned off at the first landing, and went down a short corridor to the back stairs of the house, which led to the narrow lane beside the building.  Nella snorted softly in approval, for she had feared that her mistress would boldly pass through the hall where there were always one or two idle men-servants in waiting.  The front door was closed against the heat, they had met no one and they reached the door of the glass-house without being seen.

Pasquale looked at Marietta but said nothing until all three were inside.  Then he took hold of Marietta’s mantle at her elbow, and held her back.  She turned and looked at him in amazement.

“You must not go in, lady,” he said.  “It is an ugly wound to see.”

Marietta pushed him aside quietly, and led the way.  Nella followed her as fast as she could, and Pasquale came last.  He knew that the two women would need help.

Zorzi lay quite still where he had fallen, with one hand on the billet of beech wood, the other arm doubled under him, his cheek on the dusty stone.  With a sharp cry Marietta ran forward and knelt beside his head, dropping her long mantle as she crossed the room.  Pasquale uttered an uncompromising exclamation of surprise.